


Outflanked by the Allies

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF Mummy Holmes, Birthday Party, Developing Relationship, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Holmes Country Home, Humor, M/M, POV John Watson, POV Lestrade, Secret Plans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-17 05:06:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 52,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9306560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Sherlock & John, and Mycroft & Greg, are presenting themselves as couples in love to Mummy's birthday weekend. Only for John and Greg, it's not pretend, it's the chance they've been waiting for to push their respective relationships with Sherlock and Mycroft. John and Greg are pretty smart men, but can they outsmart the Holmes brothers when it comes to love?





	1. The Proposal

John was barely in the door before Sherlock started speaking. He assumed it was aimed at him, though he did not hurry up the stairs. Sherlock spoke so fast he would be finished before John got there either way, and John wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of hearing him run. When he did make it to the top, John took a deep breath and entered the sitting room, discarding his coat and dropping his work bags by the door to be taken upstairs later.

“Did you say something?” he said mildly as he walked past Sherlock to search for the beer he fervently hoped was still lurking in the back of the fridge. Popping the top, he returned to the sitting room, where Sherlock sat, having not answered his question. John sighed and focused in on his other question, the one that had been plaguing him since his unexpected conversation with Sarah at work today.

“Did you arrange for me to have two day’s leave next week, Sherlock?” John asked.

“Hmm?” Sherlock replied, finally realising that John had spoken to him.

“You heard me,” John said evenly, knowing Sherlock was just pretending. Another game of control that John was starting to tire of, if he was honest.

Sherlock sighed dramatically. “Yes, of course.” He answered, swinging his legs off the couch to fetch a piece of paper from under the dagger on the mantle. He shoved it at John, who looked blankly at it.

“What is this?” John asked, and Sherlock rolled his hand over impatiently, indicting John should read it. It was an invitation, clearly expensive, addressed to Sherlock. John opened it and scanned the text.

 

_My dear Sherlock,_

_My birthday this year will follow our well-worn tradition – one weekend at the cottage in Sussex. I will send a car to pick you up at Baker Street on Friday 15 th September at 4pm. I look forward to seeing you._

_Yours affectionately, Mummy_

 

“Your mother’s birthday is a whole weekend away?” Nice for some, he thought. His mother’s birthday was an afternoon tea with a homemade cake and too much wine for everyone. Disastrous every year.

“Yes, Mycroft and I are required to attend from Friday afternoon to Sunday evening. She sends a car to ensure we arrive in a timely fashion.”

John smirked at this. Mummy Holmes clearly knew her boys well. “So how does this translate to me…” John trailed off, then finished with a firm, “No, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked at him, all long lashes and ‘butter wouldn’t melt’.

John felt himself soften a little at the act. “No.” John repeated sternly, as though talking to a particularly naughty puppy who kept chewing on his slippers.

“I’ve already told Mummy to expect you as well, John.” Sherlock said, sounding both perfectly reasonably and perfectly whiny at the same time.

 “So un-tell her.” John said stubbornly. It was hard enough quashing his feelings for Sherlock while they were living in London, distracted by their lives. A weekend in the country, with Sherlock’s family and his highly observant older brother, was a recipe for disaster.

Sherlock, who had been pacing up and down since handing the invitation to John, whirled around and looked at John despairingly. “Every year, John, Mycroft and I have to suffer through the ‘when will you bring home a nice girl, or a nice boy, we don’t mind’ speech. Mummy cries a bit, and Father talks about how stressed she gets, worrying about her boys being alone all the time. Father is always understanding on the surface, but he’s clearly disappointed in us both. He sighs and she cries. For a whole weekend, John. Just once, I’d like to bask in the glory of bringing home a nice boy and not having to listen.”

“And getting one up on Mycroft, of course.”

Sherlock shot a sideways look at John, but John knew him too well to think that the idea had not crossed his mind.

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly, as though that was not as important. “I suppose.”

John looked at him long and hard. He hated supporting Sherlock’s schemes against Mycroft, but perhaps this time it might be worth it. From the sounds of it, the weekend was pretty grim, and Sherlock wasn’t exactly alone, was he? He had John, even if not in the way Mummy and Father Holmes seemed to think. But if he did go, they’d have to pretend, and that was tempting despite the risks.

“So I’d be going as….” John asked, waiting for Sherlock to fill in the blank.

“As my lover, John,” he said impatiently.

John blushed. “I think boyfriend ought to cover it, don’t you?” He said. “Lover is a bit, well, graphic.”

Sherlock shrugged. Not an important detail, clearly.

“I assume we will have to pretend to be a couple for the weekend?” John asked carefully, wanting to be sure about what he was agreeing to. Not that it would be a problem, kissing Sherlock, touching him, sharing a bedroom. John gulped at his thoughts as Sherlock nodded an affirmation to his question.

“So you’ll do it?” Sherlock pressed, and John sighed. He was going to regret this, for sure.

“Yes, I’ll do it.” He agreed, and Sherlock threw himself back onto the couch, a self-satisfied look on his face.

+++

The next day, when John was thinking about the following weekend (seven days and counting), a thought occurred to him. What was their backstory? They needed to be sure that they had at least the basics down, as Mummy and Father Holmes seemed to be the type to ask a lot of intimate questions. Who asked out whom, where was the first kiss, that kind of thing. John was only too happy to spend some time fantasising about these things, and he made a mental note to ask Sherlock for his input. As he pondered the details, another thought occurred to him, one that made him stop with soapy hands in the air, the dishes forgotten. How long, exactly, was this charade meant to go on for? Surely just the weekend? From the sound of it, Sherlock’s parents were under the impression that they had been together for a while, at least. But if this was designed to ease Sherlock’s weekend, then at some point, there must be an exit strategy.

“Sherlock,” John called without even turning, a sudden need to ask these questions and have the answers. He dried his hands and went looking for his flatmate, finding him lying on his bed fully dressed except for his bare feet.

“What’s the plan for next weekend?” John asked more forcefully than he’d planned. Sherlock noted the tone and opened his eyes, though he did not sit up.

“In what respect, John?”

“We need to cement our back story, for one,” John said, beginning with the simplest detail.

Sherlock started talking immediately. “Our relationship was a natural evolution of our close friendship. Approximately six weeks ago, after we finished the case with the poisoner, you were concerned that I had almost been shot and in the heat of the moment, you kissed me. We progressed our physical relationship quickly from there, and now our preferences…”

John cut across Sherlock at this point. “Okay, okay, I don’t think we need to discuss our sex life with your family, Sherlock.” He said, cringing at the mere thought of it.

Sherlock replied easily, “It is important character detail, John, in order to make a convincing couple we need to project the idea of physical intimacy and a level of comfort with each other’s bodies.”

John just blinked at Sherlock, lying on the bed like an offering, and at a sudden urge, he lay down on top of him, his face inches above Sherlock’s. The detective looked surprised, but he did not move an inch as the length of John’s body pressed his into the mattress.

“This should help, then,” John said in a matter of fact manner. He propped his hands up on Sherlock’s sternum and rested his chin there while he continued to talk, ignoring the pounding of his heart at this bizarre turn. He’d take what he could get before this imploded, though.

“My other question,” John continued, ignoring the plushness of Sherlock’s mouth, “is what happens after the weekend.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John and asked, “What do you mean?”

“Well I assume this is just for your mother’s birthday?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded. “That was the intention, yes.”

John looked intently at Sherlock. “So what happens afterwards? What are you going to tell your parents?”

“Oh, something about a fight and you agreeing to remain at Baker Street but terminating our sexual relationship, I assume.” He said airily, and John was flabbergasted.

“What? Why is it all my fault?” John asked, forgetting for a moment that this was a hypothetical relationship.

Sherlock sighed. “Because their sympathy, along with my continued pining and broken heart, will keep them off my back for many, many years.” he said simply. 

“Seriously.” John asked flatly, and Sherlock nodded. John was pissed, he admitted to himself. Even though he’d never met these people, he did not want to be painted as such a heartless figure to them. Ungracefully, John wriggled himself off Sherlock, straightened himself up and walked out. Grabbing his phone, John shot off a quick text. This required some strategic planning.

_Drinks. Tonight. Urgent. Usual. John_

The reply was immediate.

_Yep. Greg_


	2. The Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Greg meet at the pub, where John describes his conversation with Sherlock. Greg's glib comment gives John an excellent idea...

 John and Greg arrived at their usual pub at the same time, greeting each other in the street before approaching the bar together, slumping into their usual seats. Tom poured their pints without asking, and neither spoke before downing at least half. They looked at each other and both chuckled.

“Week that bad?” John asked.

Greg groaned. “You have no idea.”

John nodded empathetically. “I’m pretty sure I can top your Holmes story, if it is one.”

“You always can,” Greg pointed out. He sighed. “Two dinners this week, only one of them planned. Mycroft is driving me crazy without even knowing it.”

John made sympathetic noises. They were a little pathetic, the two of them, and they knew it. Most of London didn’t like either Holmes brother, yet John and Greg had to go and do the stupid: falling hard, each for the brother they knew best. John had finally admitted his attraction towards Sherlock almost a year ago, after his over the top reaction to Sherlock flirting to get information for a case made him stop and question himself. Greg, on the other hand, had had to be convinced. John had watched Greg and Mycroft at crime scenes, and once at Baker Street, when he had determinedly held a Christmas gathering and invited just about everyone. Having seen how they behaved toward each other, John had believed they were shagging already. The New Year’s Eve drink(s) he’d had with Greg that year had opened Greg’s eyes to the chemistry between him and Mycroft. Once John had laid out his case, Greg had admitted to it, though it was equally likely to be attributed to the copious amount of beer they had consumed up to that point. From then on, they had committed to regular stints at the pub, bemoaning their traitorous hearts and the complete lack of opportunity to seduce their respective Holmes’.

Now, John spoke. “I feel your pain, Greg. Was he wearing that shirt?”

Greg shook his head. “He had a new suit, though, definitely not one I’ve seen before.” He sighed again and finished his pint, signalling Tom for another. “Why does everything he owns have to fit so well? He doesn’t even own a pair of ratty old jeans, I’ll bet.”

“At least he was dressed,” John pointed out a little grumpily.

“The sheet again?” Greg asked sympathetically.

John nodded, barely able to think about Sherlock, wandering around their apartment in clearly just the sheet and no pants. He groaned.

“Too many clothes can be as bad as too few,” Greg said, and John offered his pint for a toast. They both drank deeply.

“Well,” said John, “If you’d like a laugh, here’s a story for you.” He outlined the birthday conversation with Sherlock, while Greg stared at him, incredulous.

“So basically,” Greg summarised, obviously wanting to check his facts, “He wants you to pretend to be his boyfriend for the weekend.”

John nodded.

“And Mycroft will be there, watching and probably not believing,” Greg added, looking a little cheerier at John’s predicament.

“And both parents, who seem to be the kind to want intimate details,” John added, and Greg guffawed into his pint. John swiped at him, not sure if he should laugh or cry.

“Shut up, Greg,” he said, half grinning. “It’s going to be…to be…oh Christ, it’s going to be a disaster.” He buried his face in his hands, Greg’s chuckles sounding in his ears.

“It’ll be perfect,” Greg choked out, “You and Sherlock all over each other, Mummy and Daddy asking inappropriate questions, Mycroft glaring from the sidelines…”

“Seriously shut up, or I’ll get Mycroft to ask you along too,” John snapped half-heartedly. Although Greg stared laughing, John had stopped, staring blindly at the bottles behind the bar as his brain kicked in overdrive.

“Greg,” he said slowly, “What if Mycroft did ask you to come?”

Greg looked confused. “Why on earth would he do that?”

The idea was still forming in his head, so John spoke slowly. “If Mycroft knows that Sherlock is asking me to come, and why,” he started, “he’ll panic. He won’t want to be the third wheel, especially if he knows Sherlock is getting one up on him.”

Greg took over here, following on from John’s logic. “He won’t be able to tell Mummy and Father,” he added, gaining enthusiasm for the story, “because he’ll look jealous and petty, and he’ll have no proof.”

John nodded again. “And what would he do, do you think, to keep the status quo between himself and Sherlock with their parents?” He grinned a wide grin at Greg, wiggling his eyebrows and waiting for the penny to drop.

Greg’s frown, formed when he didn’t follow the last step, finally cleared. “If he can’t stop Sherlock pretending to have a boyfriend for their mother’s birthday,” he said, “Mycroft would make sure he had one, too.” Greg’s grin matched John’s as they both made the same conclusion.

“He doesn’t know anyone as well as you, Greg,” John said, clinking their empty pints together. “Especially if you’re the one who tells him about how I got really drunk and told you what Sherlock had planned. Although, Sherlock didn’t technically tell me to keep it secret, but probably better if Mycroft thinks that Sherlock wants it to be a secret.”

Greg was nodding enthusiastically, then his smile began to fade a little as the full impact of their plan hit him. He looked at John with dawning horror. “Bloody hell,” he said, “Am I going to spend a weekend being Mycroft’s boyfriend, then?”

John smirked in confirmation, and their new pints arrived as if to celebrate. “Welcome to the crazyhouse, my friend,” he said. “Here’s to a touchy-handsy weekend away with our not-boyfriends, neither of whom will believe that the other is really in a relationship, and their parents, who will probably ask who tops and how often.” They drank deeply, both threatening to spit beer over the bar as they struggled to contain their laughter.

The rest of the evening was spent talking intermittently about the football and their plan. This was their chance, they agreed. Each would take all the opportunities available to be ‘boy-friendly’ with their other, and with any luck at least one of them would manage to make their arrangement more permanent.

“We’ll have to be careful,” John said at one point. “Sherlock will know that he and I are not for real” he paused here at the little stab of hurt he felt at saying it, “but he won’t know for sure that you and Mycroft aren’t. And Mycroft will know about the two of you, but he won’t be able to say anything about Sherlock and I.” He shook his head. “This is going to get complicated.”

Greg shrugged. Now that he had his head around this, he seemed to be quite relaxed. “No it’s not,” he said confidently, “We just have to keep character all the time.”

John rolled his eyes. “Easy as, then.”

Greg grinned. “Seriously, you need to find out exactly what Sherlock has told his parents. As long as we all have our stories right, it’ll be fine.” His smile grew as he murmured, “We’ll have to practice kissing beforehand, I think.”

John snorted at this, then said, “What about you and I?” and giggled when Greg sputtered at him.

“Not you and I kissing,” John said, shaking his head, “I mean, do you know about Sherlock and I, and do I know about Mycroft?” So many details, he thought to himself.

Greg was considering this. “I think we should keep it simple. We didn’t know anything about anything, except what you told me tonight about Sherlock. I don’t think we’d fool them, they’re too observant. And they already think we’re a bit dim.” He smiled affectionately, obviously thinking about Mycroft.

John rolled his eyes, though his own mouth had turned up as he thought about Sherlock.

“Here’s to practice, then,” he said, and drank to the sound of Greg’s delighted shout of laughter. “Lots and lots of practice.” He added in satisfaction.


	3. Convincing Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg has the perfect plan to convince Mycroft to ask him to Sussex for the weekend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been distracted by The Final Problem (really, who hasn't?) so writing time for this had been put on the backburners. Now, though, the story is a'flowin', so I get to share this next part! It's a lot of fun writing fun stuff as opposed to angst, and I hope this makes everyone smile. :)

 

Greg spent most of Sunday thinking about exactly how he would approach Mycroft on Monday. He figured Monday was better as it would be closer to the upcoming weekend, thus Mycroft would be more likely to panic and ask Greg to accompany him. On Monday morning, he put his plan into action.

Step One, A: text to Mycroft, not too serious

_9.31am._ _Mycroft – need to talk about Sherlock. Greg_

 

Step One, B: text to Mycroft, still not serious

_10.42am._ _Mycroft – please call me about Sherlock. Greg_

Step One, C: text to Mycroft, mention John

_11.14am._ _Mycroft – It’s about John too. Greg_

 

Step One, D: text to Mycroft, mention this weekend

_11.54am._ _Mycroft – It’s about this weekend. Greg_

Anthea appeared in Greg’s office almost exactly when he had predicted. There were some advantages to having dealt for so long with Mycroft. Greg was an expert at knowing what to say to get a reaction from him, and he was going to use every piece of intelligence he possessed to make sure this ‘kidnapping’ meeting went according to his plan. As such, he went meekly with Anthea, exuding an air of exasperation to cover his flush of success. Bingo.

 

Step Two: Appear reluctant to tell Mycroft what’s happening with Sherlock. Make him ask for the information.

“Detective Inspector,” Mycroft greeted him when he finally arrived at the private dining room in which they would have their meeting. Mycroft was wearing a subtly pinstriped suit and matching waistcoat, and Greg’s fingers itched to see if the navy shirt underneath had a pattern that extended into the confines of that waistcoat. He swallowed hard.

“Hi, Mycroft,” he answered, and followed to sit where Mycroft indicated. As they had last time, Greg and Mycroft sat at right angles to each other, despite the room available, and again Greg marvelled at the overt flirtation of the setting. How had he really not noticed until John had pointed it out? Shaking it off, he smiled at Mycroft, allowing the smile to waver nervously before he broke eye contact, playing with the edge of the cloth napkin. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Mycroft watching his unusual body language, analysing it.

“Please, eat,” Mycroft offered, and Greg removed the cloche, revealing the lasagne below.

“Thank you,” Greg murmured, picking up his cutlery. He looked up to realise that Mycroft had not touched his own, but was still looking at him.

“What?” Greg asked, then replaced his cutlery, not meeting Mycroft’s gaze.

“What is it, Gregory?” Mycroft asked.

Greg ignored the thrill that ran through him when Mycroft used his name. It was rare, and generally when they were alone and he wanted something, and Greg loved it. Nobody called him Gregory, not even his mother. Looking briefly at Mycroft, he shrugged.

Mycroft spoke again, his voice coercive. “It’s my brother, isn’t it. And John, of course.”

Greg waited a beat, then nodded. He didn’t say anything, even though his heart was beating through his chest.

“And something about…this weekend?” Mycroft prompted, his curiosity evident to Greg’s experienced ear.

“It’s nothing.” Greg deferred.

Mycroft lowered his head, looking pointedly at Greg. “I doubt you messaged me four times this morning, almost immediately after your regular drinking session with John, for nothing. Please, tell me.”

Bingo.

Step Three: Tell him, but sound concerned about how it will affect Mycroft. Make sure you mention how you’d like to help if you can.

“John and I did have a drink on Saturday night,” Greg admitted, working hard to sound reluctant to be telling the story. He continued to fiddle with the napkin, partly to hide his nerves and partly to avoid looking at Mycroft as he spoke. “We had quite a few drinks, actually.” Greg shook his head, the memory of their evening honestly blurry after the many rounds they had consumed. “John was telling me about your mum’s birthday next weekend, how smug Sherlock is about it.” He paused, wondering if Mycroft would interrupt at…

“Why on earth would Sherlock be smug about Mummy’s birthday?” Mycroft cut in. An impatient look came over his face. “Do get to the point, please, Detective Inspector.”

Greg nodded, sensing that Mycroft was getting annoyed. “Sherlock was moaning about how your parents are always going on about how you’re both single, and John told him to find someone for the weekend. So he’s taking John.” Greg paused, then added, just to be clear, “As his boyfriend.” Greg stole a look at Mycroft, hoping he appeared guilty for disclosing John’s confidence, rather than for lying to Mycroft.

Mycroft looked shocked, which was to say he sat back in his seat, one eyebrow raised slightly. “Well,” he said, then sank into thought. Greg said nothing, knowing that Mycroft’s brain would be considering all the possible reasons for, and consequences of, Sherlock’s plan.

Finally, Mycroft spoke. “Sherlock is trying to avoid the attention of our parents this weekend, thus directing it to myself. Tiresome, really, but nothing I can do without losing face.”

“Can I do anything to help?” Greg asked, “I didn’t know if I should tell you, but, well, we’re friends, sort of, and this weekend will be difficult from the sound of it…” Greg’s voice trailed off as Mycroft’s eyes pinned him, or so he felt.

“Perhaps you can, Gregory,” Mycroft mused, his voice deeper than usual. It sent a thrill up Greg’s spine, more than the use of his full name usually would. He raised his eyebrows as though asking.

Mycroft spoke deliberately. “I can’t discredit Sherlock and John’s relationship without bringing considerable disgrace upon myself, especially as I will have no basis other than my own word. Therefore, the only way to ensure Sherlock and I are on equal footing is for me to have a companion of my own this weekend.” He stopped speaking and looked expectantly at Greg, who was trying to conceal the leap of triumph his heart undertook at these words.

Greg frowned. “Are you going to find a…professional to accompany you?” He asked innocently.

Mycroft’s mouth twisted into a small smirk. “In a manner of speaking,” he drawled, then continued, “Just to be clear, Gregory, I would be pleased if you would accompany me to my family’s home this weekend.”

Bingo.

 

Step Four: Seem reluctant when he asks you to accompany him.

“I beg your pardon?” Greg asked, his surprise genuine. After all his planning and thought, it was still a shock to hear Mycroft say the words.

Mycroft sighed a little dramatically. “I would prefer to spend the weekend with someone whose company I know I can tolerate, given the amount of time we will be spending together, Detective Inspector.”

He seemed completely at ease, Greg thought in amazement, despite the proposition he was putting to Greg. Greg cleared his throat, brain scrambling to remember his plan. What was his plan, again? Reluctance, right.

“Yeah, but we wouldn’t just be spending time together, Mycroft.” Greg said. He needed Mycroft to be explicit about the expectations of this weekend, as much for his own sanity as anything else.

“Given the nature of the relationship we would be portraying,” Mycroft conceded, “A certain amount of physical contact and implied intimacy would also be expected. I would rather not spend the time to learn about someone new, and to rely on their ability to perform under pressure. As I know your professional background, I am confident in your ability to perform satisfactorily in an undercover role.”

Greg’s brain just couldn’t resist pointing out several double entendre in that last sentence, but most of his mind was still reeling from the fact that he was being propositioned by Mycroft. More or less. He blinked, wondering what to say to this calm and well thought out argument for his participation. “So, this would be an arrangement for the weekend, correct?” He asked, a last attempt to put off his acceptance and cement his fate.

Mycroft hesitated, then nodded. “Of course, Detective Inspector.”

Bingo.

 

Step Five: Agree, try not to jump him in celebration.

“I suppose you’d better start using my name, then, Mycroft.” Greg sighed.

Mycroft looked satisfied. He pushed his chair back and stood, Greg mirroring him. “Please,” Mycroft said smoothly, indicating Greg’s untouched meal, “Stay and eat if you wish. I must go, but you are welcome to stay.”

Greg shook his head. His stomach was in knots, now that he knew he was committed for the weekend. He stood, gripping the back of his chair, and swallowed hard. He could see Mycroft out of the corner of his eye, also standing by the table. Neither of them spoke for a moment, an awkward silence descending for probably the first time in their acquaintance.

“Urgent matters notwithstanding,” Mycroft said quietly, “should we plan to meet for dinner this week, Gregory, to discuss the details of our story? It would be prudent for us to be in agreement, should my parents ask about our courtship.”

Greg nodded, again without speaking. His heart was beating out of his chest, and before he lost his nerve, he walked over to Mycroft and slid his hands onto that pinstriped suit. One hand cupped the back of his neck, the other pressed onto his chest, the pocket square soft against his palm. As Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, Greg pressed his own mouth against it, taking the opportunity to run his tongue against the softness of Mycroft’s lower lip. His lips moved slowly, the smoothness of Mycroft’s face a contrast to the rough shadow over his own chin. Greg’s body was tingling all over from the contact, and when Mycroft finally caught up and started kissing him back, the tingling exploded, racing through his body, sparking in all his extremities. For a few long moments, they kissed, Mycroft’s tongue tentative against Greg’s, testing the boundaries of this new and intimate experience. Greg needed all his considerable self-control not to back Mycroft into a wall and grind into him hard, relieving the longing that was building in his groin. Instead, he lightened the kisses until they were standing face to face, breathing hard into the same air. Mycroft’s hands had wound around Greg’s waist, and there they remained as both men recovered from the kiss.

“We should probably practice,” Greg said, after clearing his throat. He spoke quietly, not wanting to break the spell of what had been an exceptional moment.

Mycroft nodded, his façade having crumbled completely. He looked vulnerable and a little lost, Greg thought with a start. Well, it was unlikely that he came into this meeting thinking that Greg would be snogging him before he left, Greg reasoned. Plus, Greg’s brain asked, how often had he been kissed like that at all? Probably not often, all things considered. It did make Greg pause, though, wondering if this subterfuge was the best way to get close to Mycroft. His moral brain made him ask, “Are you sure about this, Mycroft? I’m sure we could figure out another way, if you’d rather.”

Mycroft shook his head, blinked, and Greg could see him slide the façade back into place. He smiled a tight smile at Greg, and said smoothly, “Of course not, Gregory. You were right, we should spend time this week becoming accustomed to a level of physical intimacy.” He paused, blushing before he said, “Though perhaps that would be inappropriate in the presence of my parents.”

Greg grinned. “Of course, Mycroft.” He leaned over and kissed Mycroft on the cheek, a chaste moment indeed in comparison to their previous efforts. “Let me know which night works for you.” Greg winked at him then strode out, buoyed by that kiss. Mycroft had kissed him back, when he could have pushed him away. He had a chance, whatever the obstacles.

Bingo. Well, kind of.


	4. Awaiting Departure: John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's ready and waiting to leave. He reflects on the week of practice and preparation with Sherlock.

“John? JOHN!” Sherlock’s bellow sounded through the flat, and John rolled his eyes. Sherlock had become increasingly anxious all day, making John wish he had actually been at work this morning. He had packed in ten minutes flat, but Sherlock had spent the morning questioning John on increasingly bizarre aspects of their faux relationship, as though his mother might casually ask whether John preferred a red toothbrush or blue.

“What, Sherlock?” John shouted back, unwilling to get up from his chair, where he had finally sat down with a cup of tea. This whole week had been exhausting, beginning when John rose on Sunday morning. He was hungover, that was true, and he wanted nothing more than a bacon sandwich and a cup of tea. When he walked into the kitchen, however, he was greeted by Sherlock pacing impatiently, clearly waiting for him to get up. Without so much as a greeting, Sherlock strode over to John, who was still half asleep, and attempted to kiss him. ‘Attempted’ because John, reflexes still good from his army days, promptly defended himself, resulting in Sherlock being thrown halfway across the room.

“What the hell?” John muttered, brain trying to catch up to what his body had just done. “What are you doing, Sherlock?” he shouted. Crossly, he helped Sherlock stand up.

“We need to practice our physical intimacy, John,” Sherlock grumbled, brushing down his shirt and pants. “I was going to kiss you.”

John stopped dead, half way to the kitchen, as his poor brain tried in vain to keep up with events. “I beg your pardon?” he said, turning to look at Sherlock. He was rewarded with a large scowl.

“We need to…” Sherlock started.

John held up one hand. “I can’t have this conversation without breakfast and tea,” he announced. He pointed at Sherlock. “You’re going to go downstairs and get me a bacon sandwich while I get dressed and make tea. Then we’ll talk about our ‘physical intimacy’.”

Sherlock’s scowl deepened, but he complied, leaving John a few moments while the kettle boiled to breathe and slow his heart rate. He had known, of course, that Sherlock would certainly want to increase their physical contact and such, but this was still making his heart pound and breath catch. God, he would have to be the world’s best actor to pull this off. What on earth was he thinking?

When Sherlock returned, John was sitting in the kitchen, drinking his tea. He thanked Sherlock, then ate the sandwich in three bites, the grease and soft white bread immediately settling his stomach. “Right,” he said, standing up and facing Sherlock. “I think maybe we should start with something a little less…intimate, Sherlock.” He looked doubtful, until John said, “The longer we practice casual touches and the like, the more natural it will seem. Your family will see more of that than us actually, um kissing, so we should prioritise it.” John hoped he was persuasive enough, as there was no way he would be able to hide his reactions for long if he and Sherlock practiced kissing too much.

Sherlock looked thoughtful, then nodded. “Agreed, John. You should touch me often in order to allow me to acclimatise.” John blinked at the double meaning, forcing his mind away from the images to which it sprang. Instead he nodded, then moved forward to slide his arms around Sherlock’s waist. He drew Sherlock in towards him, allowing his body to soften against Sherlock. John closed his eyes, breathing deeply the smell of Sherlock, his heart hitching as Sherlock’s long arms wrapped around his shoulders, his chin resting on John’s bent head. They stood like that for a few moments, this relatively chaste contact still more than they would usually submit to. Finally, John sighed, forcing himself to gently extricate his body. He had the feeling that Sherlock had no idea how long to hold the hug, and would therefore be guided by John. Tempting though it was, he knew they needed to move on.

“Right,” John said, clearing his throat. “Maybe later we can watch a movie or something, sit together on the couch. That’s a pretty, um, couple-y thing to do, we can figure out how we’d sit together.” It sounded lame to him, but it was clear that Sherlock had no experience in the relationship department.

He nodded seriously at John. “What about casually, through the day?” He asked, and John thought for a moment he would whip out a pen and start taking notes.

“Well, that’s up to us. It’s different for everyone, I guess,” John said, not really sure how to explain how these things developed their natural rhythm. “Just as much as you feel comfortable with. In front of your family it’s probably natural that we would be less, um, handsy,” he blushed at this clumsy word, “I mean, more restrained. You know about reading body language though, think about what you see that makes you know people are attracted to each other.” John folded his arms and looked expectantly at Sherlock.

Sure enough, he drew breath and started speaking. “Attraction is often marked by extended eye contact, following a person with your gaze, finding excuses to touch or otherwise engage the person, an increased number of smiles and positive reinforcements of touch, an increase in masculine behaviours in men…” Sherlock frowned a little, bringing this information into their current situation. He shrugged. “Okay, he said, “I can do that. We’ll start now, please let me know if my behaviour would be at any point inappropriate in front of my parents.” John nodded, too bemused at himself and this whole situation to speak. He was going to live to regret this, he thought ruefully.

+++

Sitting in his seat, waiting for Sherlock to pack, John’s reflection on the rest of the week was no easier to recall without wincing. Sherlock had immediately begun acting like a lovesick teenager, touching and groping John at every opportunity. It made John so anxious that Sherlock eventually said, “Why are you so jumpy, John? It’s not believable that you are so unaccustomed to my touch.”

John couldn’t believe it. “Sherlock, you’re stalking me like a deranged teenager! Every time I come within arm’s reach, you pinch my arse, or grab my hand or something. People don’t do that all the time, not as grownups, not after a while of dating, and definitely not in front of their parents when they’re meeting for the first time in the parents’ house!” He exclaimed.

Sherlock frowned. “You said it was up to us, it was different for everyone,” he said, in that annoying way he had of repeating John out of context and practically verbatim.

John sighed. “Okay. How about this. Let’s pretend that Mycroft is here. He will be there at your parents’ place, and we don’t want to overdo it in front of him, right?” John couldn’t believe he was trying to talk Sherlock out of pinching his arse, but enough was enough. He was going to be bruised all over if this went on too long. “Subtle, Sherlock,” he reminded him. “They’ll know we’re together, we don’t need to thump them over the head with it. Just reinforce the idea.” John nodded encouragingly at Sherlock, hoping he could understand the difference. It was going to be a long week…

+++

Now, tea cooling in his hand, John had to admit to himself that Sherlock had actually been quite good at subtlety when he put his mind to it. They had finally found a rhythm of understated intimacy that wouldn’t outrage anybody (John hoped), and with any luck, four days from now, he and Sherlock would be…would be…John had no idea, actually. Now that they had relaxed into their roles, John adored it, being allowed to touch Sherlock, the expectation that they would sit close on the couch and even kiss occasionally. That had been memorable, too, when on Wednesday morning Sherlock had said, “We still haven’t kissed, John, we should practice several times before the weekend in order to be suitably comfortable with the process.”

John, in a bad mood after several vivid dreams about Sherlock had awoken him during the night, had stared for a moment before muttering, “Fine.” He put down his book, walked over to Sherlock, and kissed him. His hands slid up into Sherlock’s hair and his mouth landed on Sherlock’s, angry and demanding. Once Sherlock overcame his surprise, teeth clashed and tongues brawled. Sherlock’s arms were flailing, and John finally let him go, the two of them several feet apart and panting hard.

“I’m not sure that would be appropriate in front of my parents, John.” Sherlock said in a shaky voice.

John nodded abruptly, taking a deep, calming breath. “How about this?” He suggested, and walked casually over, rested his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, and kissed him, their lips meeting for a long beat, fairly chaste but certainly more than the peck Sherlock might have meant.

“Um, yes, I suppose that would suffice,” Sherlock managed, and John nodded again.

“Good, let’s do that before bed, then,” John said, then picked up his book and stomped upstairs. Their kisses, of the ‘mostly chaste’ variety, had been awkward, but Sherlock had insisted every morning and before bed. They had become much more accustomed to the casual touches, but kissing Sherlock was still an oddity that John hoped he would accept before they arrived at the house this afternoon. By now, his nerves about their weekend, as well as Sherlock’s nerves, had overridden any other emotions, and he was anxious to get going. Finally, Sherlock came out of his bedroom, suit bag and weekend bag packed. He placed them by the door and came over to sit on the arm of John’s chair.

“Are you ready?” He asked, hand on the back of John’s neck. The warmth bled immediately into John’s skin. After a moment he stood to take his half full but cold tea mug into the kitchen.

“Yes,” John answered, refraining from noting that he’d been ready for approximately six hours, now. Sherlock looked nervous, he thought, running one hand through his hair, one knee bouncing hard. Instinctively, John put his tea down on the floor and wrapped his arms around Sherlock, the embrace working better than usual now they were the same height. He felt Sherlock’s arms close around him, the tension seeping out as they embraced.

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock said very quietly, and John knew better than to respond to this rarity. He simply squeezed Sherlock a little, acknowledging the comment.

“Oo-ee!” Mrs. Hudson’s voice floated up the stairs. “Your car’s here, boys!”

Reluctantly, John stepped back. He looked at Sherlock fondly, worry still ghosted on his face. Impulsively, he leaned in and kissed him, lips warm and firm. Sherlock’s mouth responded, moving a little under John’s and he had to stifle a moan. Breaking away, John said, “We’ll be fine, Sherlock. We trust each other, right?”

“Right,” Sherlock replied, standing up slowly, the movement shifting, then breaking, their embrace. He straightened his suit as John took the tea mug to the kitchen, then they both moved towards the door, demenour serious, ready to face the weekend.


	5. Awaiting Departure: Greg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg is ready to leave. He reflects on the week of practice and preparation with Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was interesting writing these two chapters (the Awaiting Departure chapters). Initially I thought they would be too similar, given that they would be basically covering the same thing. Turned out to be a good study in the differences between John/Sherlock's relationship and Greg/Mycroft's. I found that even the structure of the chapters turned out to be unalike, simply because John and Greg's brains are wired they way they are. I hope you enjoy these chapters.

“The car is here, Gregory,” Mycroft said from the next room, and Greg shot out of the chair he was sitting in, heart pounding. Christ, he’d only just gotten that under control, and there it went again, just about thumping out of his chest. As he breathed deeply, trying to calm his nerves and stave off what felt like an imminent heart attack, Mycroft entered the kitchen where Greg had been waiting for him. He looked great, Greg thought absently, the light grey suit and violet tie a combination that shouldn’t work with his gingery hair and complexion but somehow did.

Steeling himself, Greg walked over to Mycroft and took his hand, squeezing it familiarly. Mycroft smiled at him with affection, an emotion he seemed exceptionally good at portraying, to Greg’s consternation. It was much harder pretending when Mycroft was so good at pretending back, he thought. A frown must have crossed his face, because Mycroft’s free hand rose, one finger tracing the furrow in his brow.

“Nervous, Gregory?” Mycroft asked quietly.

Greg nodded without thinking. It was true, after all, he was nervous about this whole weekend. After their week of practice, he knew they could pull it off, but he was in danger of falling irretrievably in love. Right now, he made an effort to straighten his face, returning Mycroft’s smile. “We’ll be fine,” he said, as much to convince himself as to answer Mycroft.

“Indeed we will,” Mycroft replied, and squeezed Greg’s fingers again before releasing them. “The driver is waiting, are you ready?” Mycroft asked, and it seemed a loaded question.

Greg gulped. “Yes,” he said, feeling like a man walking to his own execution. It seemed in a daze that he made his way to the hall, where the driver waited, having taken their bags to the car already.

“Mr. Holmes, Mr. Lestrade,” he greeted them, and they followed him to the street. As the car moved slowly into traffic, Mycroft said to Greg, “I hope you don’t mind, Gregory, but I must just check on a few last things before I am out of contact with the office for the weekend.” He had already removed his phone from his inner pocket.

Greg nodded. “No problem.” His mind was already conjuring scenarios for the weekend, some funny, some horrible. He forced himself to recall the week just gone, instead, scenes flashing through his head.

 

Monday afternoon, late.

“Who are you sleeping with, getting four days off at such short notice?” Sally asked, when Greg explained that he’d be away for the weekend. The question left him speechless, for all the innocence it held.

“None of your business,” he snapped, and Sally left, hands up and eyebrows raised. Greg groaned, knowing that the idle comment would now be wildly speculated about for the whole week and probably longer.

 

Tuesday morning, early.

_Would this evening be possible to discuss the details of the weekend?_

The text came in so early Greg wasn’t actually up yet, and his eyes squinted to read the overly bright screen on his phone. Mycroft. His heart fluttered at the message, and he replied immediately.

_Sure. Your place or mine?_

The innuendo wasn’t lost on him, and he groaned a minute before mentally shrugging. He was, after all, about to pretend to be shagging Mycroft senseless, surely a little innuendo would be in character?

The response came through less than a minute later.

_Mine, if that is acceptable. A car will collect you at 6pm._

Greg sighed. More fodder for the rumor mills. He contemplated telling Mycroft he’d make his own way there, but mysterious black cars had been collecting him from work for months now, and another one was unlikely to be commented on, or even connected to his weekend away.

 

Tuesday evening, after dinner.

“That was excellent, thank you Mycroft,” Greg said, pushing his empty plate away.

“You’re welcome, Gregory,” Mycroft had replied, taking their plates to the sink. Greg knew he hadn’t cooked personally, but still, it was a far cry from the pizza or takeaway he would have managed himself had he been at home this evening. So far they’d only talked about the usual things – Greg’s work, old movies, wine, food – and nothing about the weekend. Conversation has been stilted, however, and awkward silences an unwelcome addition to their meal. Now, however, wine poured, seated on the settee in the sitting room, the atmosphere changed. It was clear to Greg that they were about to have an exceedingly uncomfortable conversation, and the wine would be a welcome lubricant. God, he couldn’t use words like lubricant, the mental images were far too distracting. A sip of wine, and he took a deep breath.

“So, I assume you’ve thought about this weekend?” Greg asked Mycroft, who was sitting at the other end of the settee. Mycroft nodded, his ears reddening endearingly as he said,

“I have given the subject of our physical intimacy significant thought, Gregory.”

“Me, too,” Greg replied, completely honestly. His definition of ‘significant thought’ may not match Mycroft’s exactly, but it was close enough.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Very good. I have considered the appropriate level of intimacy for the situation, as well as imagining that you and I were genuinely in a relationship, for context.”

Greg’s hands were shaking a little, and he pressed them into his knees to steady them. This was not a conversation he was equipped to deal with. Wine. He should drink wine. Swallowing a large mouthful, he nodded belatedly at Mycroft.

Taking the hint, Mycroft continued. “I feel that I would not be a particularly demonstrative partner, Gregory,” he said, and his honesty stirred something different in Greg. Pity? No, sadness. Would Mycroft be that unsure of his reception that he would refrain from showing affection? Or would he wonder if Greg was embarrassed to be with him, would worry that Greg would get angry if people knew he was seeing Mycroft? Either way, it made Greg’s heart constrict a little at the thought. “Okay,” he said carefully. “We can do this however you like.” He himself was pretty affectionate, different situations notwithstanding, but this was Mycroft’s party, and it was pretend, he had to keep reminding himself.

Mycroft was nodding at him. “I suspect my parents would think it odd if we were to sit in separate chairs when adjoining seats were available?” He said, with a questioning note.

It took Greg a moment to decipher that. He frowned, a suspicion dawning on him. “Mycroft,” he asked, trying to phrase it in as non-judgmental a way as possible, “Have you ever brought someone home to meet your parents?” The immediate and deep flush that engulfed Mycroft answered Greg’s question. Clearly not, Greg thought, surprised, and yet this answered some of his questions about Mycroft’s thought process.

“As someone who has done this before,” he said, striving for a neutral tone, “may I make some suggestions about our behaviour, then?” Mycroft nodded stiffly. Greg could see how difficult this was for Mycroft, who had probably spent just as much time stressing about the week as Greg had. More, actually, as it was his family and a brand new scenario for which he had no point of reference. Greg’s admiration for Mycroft shot through the roof. He was stronger and braver in person than Greg had given him credit for, really.

“Right,” Greg said, “Let’s start with this.” He shifted closer to Mycroft so their shoulders were brushing, legs close as they extended from the settee. He turned one hand palm up on his knee, and looked at Mycroft. Uncertainly, Mycroft shifted his wine to the other hand and placed his own hand over Greg’s. Ignoring the shot of awareness that ran up his arm, Greg carefully intertwined their fingers, then closed his fingers over Mycroft’s hand. They sat like that for a moment, the heat of their hands eventually bleeding through Greg’s work pants. Absently, he stroked the back of Mycroft’s hand with his thumb, the gentle rhythm helping to slow his heartbeat. This was as close as they’d been, both physically and emotionally, with the exception of the kiss on Monday. This seemed more intimate, though, sitting quietly, Greg painfully aware of the heat of Mycroft’s body next to his, the softness of his hand.

Clearing his throat, he said, “How’s that, then?” he turned his head to find Mycroft’s face close, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. It took all Greg’s will power not to kiss him. Instead he waited, gently squeezing Mycroft’s fingers.

“Fine,” Mycroft said finally. “Would this be appropriate in the presence of my parents?”

Greg shrugged. “It’s up to you, Mycroft. Whatever we do has to be natural and comfortable for us both. I’m usually pretty touchy when I’m, um, dating someone, but it’s up to you, really.” Mycroft looked at his hand, still entangled with Greg.

“It’s quite pleasant, actually,” he admitted. “Though I’m not sure…” he broke off, and the ear-redness again told Greg that he was uncertain how to express himself. They’re as good as a light-up sign, he thought to himself. Slowly, Greg untangled their hands and moved a little further along the couch, making a space between them.

“Can I be honest, Mycroft?” He said, swallowing hard. “If you’ve never brought someone home, there’s a good chance your parents will expect you to be nervous, to be shy about showing affection to me,” he paused at this mental image, “and they’ll probably take one look at me and realise I’m, um, I mean, I’ve met people’s parents before.” Greg blushed at his own stumbling explanation, but pushed on. “If I’m more comfortable with it, and you’re not, that will actually be natural. Having said that, I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable. I guess it comes down to this: Do you trust me?” Greg almost held his breath as he waited for the answer. Mycroft’s eyes had dropped away when Greg started speaking, clearly embarrassed at the directness of his speech. As he finished, however, Mycroft looked up and held his gaze. He seemed to be examining Greg for something, before he slowly nodded.

“I do, Gregory.” Mycroft said, and Greg let out his breath.

“Okay then. In that case, let me take the lead. You just need to act like you’re, um, you know…”

“Enamored with you?” Mycroft supplied dryly, and Greg winced.

“Yeah, I guess.” Greg mumbled. “You know what that looks like. Affectionate looks, follow me with your gaze, that kind of thing.” He knew that Mycroft knew what he meant. Noticing his glass was empty, Greg took the excuse to rise from the sofa.

“Okay, I’m done in,” he said. He had no more space in his brain for this conversation right now.

“Tomorrow evening, then?” Mycroft said, and Greg nodded.

“Same Bat-time, same Bat-channel?” Greg joked, and Mycroft looked blankly at him.

“Pop culture reference,” he explained, hesitating before leaning down and brushing his lips over Mycroft’s. The gentle touch made his skin prickle, and he smiled a warm, affectionate smile.

+++

Now, back in the car, Greg’s face was flushed just thinking about that first conversation. Once he had realised that Mycroft really didn’t know how to go about this, it actually became much easier. Equally, once Mycroft had realised that his inexperience could actually be an asset, he relaxed into the role. Wednesday and Thursday evenings had both been spent at Mycroft’s home, gourmet dinner supplied while they talked and Greg gradually introduced Mycroft to the world of casual, understated affection. He’d packed his bags on Thursday afternoon and stayed in the spare room at Mycroft’s Thursday night, given his day off on Friday anyway. It had made it seem even more real, and now Greg was fighting the illusion that this was actually genuine. As they turned onto a long country drive, Mycroft turned off his phone, returned it to his pocket and turned to Greg. A frankly adorable nervous smile crossed his face, and Greg reached for his hand without thinking. Gripping it for support, he smiled a sincere, affectionate smile at Mycroft.

“I’ve got your back,” he whispered, before the car pulled up in front of the poshest house Greg had ever seen. He gulped, looked at Mycroft, and opened the door.


	6. Arrival and Drinks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone arrives, ready for Mummy's birthday weekend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of stronger language in this one, within the context of the story. Consider yourself warned.

John and Sherlock looked at each other as the car came to a stop outside the Sussex house. Not a word passed between them, but both nodded, the understanding clear. It was like going into battle, John thought, as he exited the car and nodded again, this time to the driver, who started taking their bags from the car. Sherlock looked calm and determined, though John fancied he could see the anxiety behind his eyes. They stood for a moment in the portico, John waiting for Sherlock to open the door, or knock or whatever.

“Are we going in, or…” He asked finally. Sherlock was chewing on his lower lip, hand tapping on one leg as his mind clearly raced.

“They know we’re here,” Sherlock replied absently. “I’m just waiting for-” he cut himself off, turning to John and cupping his face before kissing him tenderly. John, taken aback by the sudden change of pace, took a second to catch up, but then wrapped his arms around Sherlock, one hand tangling in his hair for the long moment their lips danced over each other. Sherlock trailed his mouth down to John’s ear, breathing, “I suspect my mother will be watching from the sitting room windows for our arrival. With any luck she’s watching this display.” John nodded, though his heart gave a thud as it fell. Even in these moments, when a part of him was enjoying the fantasy that it was real, Sherlock was still thinking about the image they were projecting. It tugged at his heart, and his conscience, but John had to accept that this was what he had signed on for.

“Really, brother, I don’t think that’s necessary, do you?” Mycroft’s voice drawled behind them, distaste clear in the tone of his voice.

John jumped at the sound, not having heard another car appear, let along Mycroft and Greg exit from it. Sherlock did not, dropping one last kiss on John’s mouth before turning to look at Mycroft and Greg, standing right behind them on the portico. Greg looked supremely uncomfortable, John thought, though to be fair he probably had the same expression on his face.

“Hi, Mycroft,” John offered, then nodded at Greg. The brothers were glaring at each other, and Greg raised one eyebrow at John, a silent ‘you’re not losing any time’. John shook his head slightly, tilting it towards Sherlock (‘he started it’). They each grinned at the other.

“What are you two smiling at?” Sherlock snapped, looking at Greg, then back at John.

“You mean you haven’t noticed, Sherlock?” John asked, a faux innocent expression in his voice. He looked pointedly at Greg and Mycroft. Mycroft had been smirking at Sherlock, clearly relishing his secret, but now he frowned at John.

“Oh, come on.” John said, enjoying playing the superior, observant one for once.

“Look at them, Sherlock.” He urged. Sherlock looked, then blinked and looked again as though just registering that Greg was here, at his parent’s house.

Greg, taking the lead from John, said, “Maybe this will make it clearer for you, Sherlock.” then turned and kissed Mycroft. It was, strictly speaking, not really part of what they had discussed vis a vie their interaction for the weekend, but Mummy and Father were not here, and Mycroft would understand nothing better than holding one over Sherlock. Greg let the kiss linger for a moment, before pulling away and looking fondly at Mycroft. Mycroft was a quicker study than John, for he returned the gaze, affection clear in his eyes. Breaking their gaze, both men looked at Sherlock expectantly. He was speechless, a position John felt he had never seen Sherlock in before now.

“There’s no way that’s for real.” He said flatly.

“What, and this is?” Mycroft retorted, indicating with his finger between Sherlock and John. John’s face flamed at the accusation, but before anyone could speak, the front door was opened by Mrs. Holmes.

John was relieved that the scene had ended there, but the arrival of Sherlock’s mother did nothing for his stress levels. Mummy was smiling, but demanded, “What on earth are you all doing standing here? Come inside, for goodness sake!” Both brothers broke off their hard stares at each other, instead greeting their mother with surprising warmth. She in turn kissed them both, before turning her attention to John and Greg.

“Now you must be John,” she said, and her piercing gaze made John quite aware that he was a guest here, and a guest who was attempting to fool his host, at that. He smiled and was pulled into a hug, complete with kiss on the cheek.

“It’s so lovely to meet you, my boys so rarely bring anyone home, especially for my birthday,” she said. John liked her immediately. She seemed the practical type, well preserved, people would say; but her clear gaze and straightforward way of talking put him at ease far more quickly than he had anticipated. Mummy moved on to Greg, giving him the same hug-and-a-kiss treatment. For a moment, they all stood in the entrance hall, awkwardness clear between the brothers and couples, though Mummy seemed completely oblivious to it.

“Come through, Father and I have had drinks set out on the patio, it’s such a beautiful evening,” she said, and they followed her through the house out the back door. The patio was spacious, like the rest of the house, and obviously well cared for, the extensive creepers trailing up the house lending a comfortable, settled feeling to the house. The formal lawn rolled down a gentle slope towards a riot of wildflowers, a stream and several paths leading off across the countryside.

“This is lovely, Mrs. Holmes,” John said, and she touched his arm as she said, “Oh, call me Mummy, everyone does.” A tall man, though stooping a little with age, turned from where he had been pouring drinks to smile at them all. Mycroft and Sherlock went to greet their father, leaving John and Greg to exchange significant looks, which amounted to the following exchange.

“Fuck.”

“I know.”

“We’re fucked.”

“I know.”

Mr. Holmes, having greeted his sons, moved over to shake the hands of both his guests. They exchanged pleasantries, and the new arrivals were provided Pimms cocktails, which seemed to be the drink of choice.

“To Mummy’s birthday,” Mycroft offered a toast. “May all her dreams come true.” They all raised their glasses and drank.

“I already have everything I could want,” she said, looking fondly at the three Holmes men. “My boys are here, and they’re both finally happy.” She smiled at Greg and John, whose smiles were a little forced in return.

“I’m sure we were happy before we met John and Greg, Mummy.” Sherlock protested.

“Oh I’m sure you can’t remember that, new love always blots out everything before.” Mummy said, John swiftly revising his ‘shrewd and practical’ assessment downwards slightly. Not quite in the same league as her sons, she was more the romantic than he’d thought. Realising he was standing quite a ways from Sherlock, John shifted, standing close enough that their shoulders brushed. Sherlock looked down at him and John smiled an affectionate smile. Sherlock returned it, and John’s heart leapt. They looked back at the group, and Mummy smiled a watery smile at them. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“I’m sure it’s still fresh in his memory.” Mycroft replied belatedly to his mother’s earlier comment. Sherlock scowled at him.

“Not as fresh as your memories, Mycroft.” Sherlock retorted, looking pointedly at Greg. Greg in turn frowned at him, moving closer to Mycroft and deliberately taking his hand. Mycroft looked surprised, but his gaze to Greg was fond, and Greg’s smile had a definite ‘special for you’ angle to it. After a beat, Greg turned to Sherlock and raised his eyebrows, challenging him, and the younger man glowered at him. The tension from the portico had returned, and Greg and John wondered for a moment if the brothers would discard their drinks and resort to fisticuffs.

“It’s just so lovely to see you so content.” Mummy said, and John could see, to his alarm, that she was about to cry. It was evident to everyone, for Father put his drink down and took her arm.

“We’ll just check on the dinner.” he said, taking her inside and shooting looks at the brothers that clearly said, ‘spoil her birthday and you’ll be sorry’. Well, John thought, both their parents seemed to have a bit of iron in them, which was a good thing, he thought. It did make him wonder how Sherlock grew so willful, with two parents like that.

His attention was drawn back to the present. Sherlock and Mycroft were still fighting the battle of the steely looks, and Greg was gripping Mycroft’s hand, hoping to prevent anything too nasty from occurring.

“So this is new, then.” Mycroft noted with a false smile. He was looking at Sherlock and John, clearly commenting on their relationship.

“Yes, it is.” Sherlock said shortly.

“Congratulations, both of you.” Greg offered into the strained silence. John was glad he remembered that he wasn’t supposed to know about John and Sherlock. That little comment (hopefully) cemented the idea in Sherlock’s mind.

“Thanks, mate. Er, you too?” John said.

“You didn’t know about this, John?” Sherlock asked, looking suspiciously at him.

John frowned. “No. Why would I?”

Sherlock replied, “I thought you and Greg were friends.”

This was tricky ground, John knew. He had to be convincing to both Mycroft (most observant man on the planet) and Sherlock (not quite as good, but knew John much better). He took a deep breath.

“We are. Doesn’t mean he tells me everything.” He shrugged, then addressed Greg.

“I assume you wanted to see how it went for a bit.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, it’s not been long. Mycroft wanted me to meet his parents this weekend, though, so…” he shrugged self-consciously, and John could see Mycroft and Sherlock watching each other, trying to catch the other out.

“Drink, brother?” Mycroft offered, and the brothers moved to the far side of the patio. They started talking fast and quiet, heads together.

 

_On the patio, near the drinks…_

“What are you doing, Mycroft?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Tell me you and Greg are not seriously going to perform this ridiculous charade all weekend.”

“There is no charade, brother. Greg and I have become fond of one another, and as such, he has accompanied me this weekend.”

“No way, Mycroft. I would have deduced a relationship with you off him ages ago.”

“Clearly, though, you have not. Perhaps you have been distracted by your own change in circumstances?”

“John is not a change in circumstances, Mycroft.”

“Hmmm, well while I am convinced by him, it is you about whom I am skeptical.”

“In what way, brother?”

“The addition of a companion on this weekend would severely reduce the amount of time Mummy spent blubbering about one’s personal circumstances. It would not be beyond you to fabricate these circumstances to your advantage, Sherlock.”

“The thought had occurred to me, Mycroft. It would be advantageous to you also, of course.”

“Of course. Not that I would stoop to such a level.”

“Nor I.”

A moment of tense silence, in which the brothers came to a tacit agreement.

“Well I will be interested to see how you and John interact this weekend. How have you been feeling about the closeness of another body? Sentiment can be so cloying, with the wrong person.”

“Agreed. With the wrong person, of course. I am quite eager to see how the addition of Greg to your activities impacts on _your_ behaviour, Mycroft.”

A moment of silence.

“With the right person, I must admit, affection can be quite tolerable.”

“I have come to the same conclusion.”

“As far as Mummy is concerned…”

“Happy families, brother mine.”

“Indeed.”

 

_Meanwhile, on the patio, near the climbing vines…._

“Bloody hell, John.”

“I know.”

“Mummy’s a bit full on. Smart, that one. We’ll need to keep an eye on her.”

“Definitely. I can see why they wanted us here though, with the tears and everything.”

“For sure. What was with the display out front? Getting a bit of extra practice in?”

“Shh! No, apparently Mummy was watching from a window or something.”

“No arguments from you, then.”

“Of course not. I assume you had plenty of practice, too.”

“Enough.”

“Never enough, Greg. That’s the problem.”

“True. Hey, did you think about the sleeping arrangements? I mean, we’re probably sleeping in the same bedrooms.”

“I know. I suspect Mummy might be the ‘burst in at first light with breakfast’ kind too. Nothing for it but to share, I guess.”

“This just gets better and better. Did you get the sarcasm there?”

“Hard to miss, mate.”

“Fuck.”

“I know.”

“Seriously, we’re fucked.”

“Yep.”

 

_Meanwhile, in the kitchen…_

“They’re lovely!”

“Seem to be, Wanda.”

“Mr. Holmes, you take that back! Those boys out there have a stronger hold on our sons that any of them like to admit. I saw the way they looked at each other.”

“Which couple?”

“All of them! Our boys think they’re clever. I wonder who thought of it first?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, it’s so obvious! John and Greg are not actually our boys’ boyfriends, Timothy.”

“What?”

“I mean, John and Greg really are smitten, but our boys are putting it on, mostly.”

“John and Greg?”

“Not with each other! Sherlock and John are pretending, but John isn’t really pretending. And Mycroft and Greg are pretending, but Greg isn’t really pretending. And Mycroft knows that Sherlock is pretending, and Sherlock knows that Mycroft is pretending. But Sherlock and Mycroft care more than they know, really.”

“Good grief, that’s complicated. They all look happy enough to me.”

“Well of course they do, they’re pretending! But I saw something there, when they looked at each other, our boys are in deeper than they think. I don’t know how they convinced John and Greg to come, but I guarantee you, John and Greg are here because they’re in love with our sons, and I would wager our sons have no idea.”

“Are you sure you’re not reading too much into this? They all just look happy, to me.”

“Where do you think our boys learned the art of deduction, Timothy? Certainly not from a book. Ahh, I love that they think they can fool me.”

“Well what do we do, then?”

“Nothing, Timothy.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. The weekend will play out and it will all become evident in time. Mycroft and Sherlock may be clever, but they don’t know what they’re doing with this. Affairs of the heart are not their forte. John and Greg are not stupid men, I would bet you they have an end game of their own. Oh, this IS going to be a fun weekend!”

 


	7. Dinner and After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mummy wants to know how things started for her boys.

After Mummy had recovered herself, they all moved inside to the dining room. Despite the whispered conversations of earlier, everybody seemed to be happy enough. There was a little tension in the air though that would be natural enough even without all the subterfuge. It was a surprisingly casual kind of dinner, Greg thought, despite the beautiful house. They had all pasted smiles on and indulged in small talk as they settled in to the meal, Father pouring wine while Mummy fussed around making sure everyone had enough to eat, before she sat down to her own place.

“Now,” she said, “I would love to hear about how you boys started your romance!” Mummy sounded enthusiastic, though she was the only one. John and Sherlock looked at each other nervously, Greg noticed, mainly because he had shot a similar look at Mycroft. Mycroft seemed to be the only one unfazed by the comment, though Greg thought he could see tension in his jaw.

“Certainly, Mummy,” Mycroft answered smoothly. He placed his cutlery down carefully, then looked affectionately at Greg. Greg smiled without thinking in reply.

“Gregory and I have known each other for a number of years,” Mycroft began. Greg glanced at Sherlock, who was watching Mycroft carefully, a studied, neutral expression on his face. John was concentrating on his meal, keeping out of the line of fire, Greg thought wryly.

“We meet on a semi regular basis as a sort of unofficial liaison between the Government and Scotland Yard.” Greg forced himself not to raise his eyebrows at the delicate phrasing. In reality, of course, he and Mycroft met to talk about Sherlock. Perhaps that was a point of contention with their parents? Greg made a mental note to ask Mycroft about it later.

“Simply put, it became clear to both of us that our interest in each other extended beyond our professional capacities. One thing led to another, and…” Mycroft shrugged, a delicate blush colouring his cheeks. Greg stared, entranced at the sight. He looked charming, Greg’s fingers itching to caress the heightened colour across his cheeks. He settled for placing his hand on Mycroft’s, where it rested on the table beside his plate. He squeezed it a little, and Mycroft reciprocated without looking at him.

“Oh, that’s so vague, Mycroft!” Mummy scolded gently. She turned her attention to Greg, who felt those eyes boring into him intently.

“Tell me what happened, Greg, please!” She implored him, a beseeching look on her face. Greg swallowed, took a drink of wine to calm his nerves, and started spinning a story out of whole cloth. Truth be told, it was half fantasy, but hey, who would know?

“Well, as Mycroft said, we’d have dinner pretty often,” he started, wanting to make sure he didn’t contradict Mycroft’s story. “Once we’d discussed business, we’d talk about other things – wine, food, old movies, that kind of thing. One night it was later than usual, we were talking about Casablanca, the movie, not the place, and,” Greg paused for a moment, then looked at Mycroft with deliberate adoration and shrugged, “things changed.” Sherlock rolled his eyes at this, and John grinned a little into his dinner. Greg had the urge to kick John, or remind him that it was likely he would be next under this scrutiny.

“Oh, what happened?” Mummy asked, and Greg’s face became progressively warmer as he added uncomfortably, “Well, we got talking about relationships, and how hard it is to find the right person, someone you can, um, talk to. I needed to get home, and Mycroft walked me to the door, and we, um kissed before I left.” John’s grin had widened, and Greg started calculating the right direction to kick to hit his target. Mummy was loving it, Greg could see, and brace himself for even more personal questions about their relationship.

“Tell me, brother,” Sherlock asked smoothly before his mother could continue to gush over Greg’s story, “Did you kiss Gavin first or was it up to him to ‘man up’?” He jerked as soon as he’d finished speaking, and it was evident from the look he shot at John that the latter had kicked him hard under the table. John’s look clearly said ‘shut up’, and Sherlock scowled at him before raising his eyebrows expectantly at his brother, waiting.

“I believe we kissed each other, Sherlock,” Mycroft answered, his colour rising again, clearer than before.

“Oh, that’s just lovely,” Mummy sighed, looking fondly at both Greg and Mycroft, who by now were examining their own plates with great interest. She’d clearly missed Sherlock’s ‘Gavin’ jibe in her delight at hearing their story.

“How long has this been going on, then?” She asked.

Mycroft answered before Sherlock could, “A few weeks, Mummy. Still quite new, in fact.”

“Well I’ve had the housekeeper prepare just the one bedroom, I assume that’s what you’d prefer.” Mummy went on, and Greg cringed at the smirk on Sherlock’s face.

“That’s fine, thank you, Mummy.” Greg answered, then directed his next comment to Sherlock. “I assume you and John will be sharing your room, Sherlock?” The smirk disappeared, and Greg felt a surge of triumph. He shot his own grin at Sherlock, and received a glare in return. Mycroft pressed his foot against Greg’s, and Greg grinned to himself, knowing it was a thank you for defending him.

“Well, I did assume that you would be sharing a bed, nobody told me any different.” Mummy said innocently. They all rushed to placate her, telling her it was fine, no problem. Obviously feeling better, she turned her attention to John.

“I understand you’ve been living with Sherlock for a while, now.” She asked, and John nodded.

“Yes, Mummy.” he answered. “As flat mates, you understand.”

She looked at him expectantly. “Well I’m not going to bother asking Sherlock for the details, so come on, tell me what happened with you two?”

John cleared his throat, shot a quick look at Sherlock, who ignored him completely, and delved into the story Sherlock had so casually devised on that very first day.

“We’ve been good friends for a while now, working cases together and the like. About six weeks ago, we had been working on a case with a poisoner. Sherlock chased him, of course, and he had a gun. He fired as Sherlock ducked, but I thought Sherlock had been shot. I ignored the criminal of course, I was so worried about him.” John paused to shoot an exasperated but affectionate look at Sherlock, which Greg recognized from many a crime scene. Genuine sentiment, he thought with amusement. John continued, “I was so relieved that he was okay, I just kissed him. And he kissed me back, and…” he left off there and shrugged.

Mummy was enthralled, though she shot a look at Sherlock, “You need to be more careful, Sherlock!”

“Of course now, we share one bedroom, as lovers do,” Sherlock added, and John instantly blushed fiercely. He placed his hand deceptively lightly over Sherlock’s, though Greg could see it was a grip of iron. “Too much information, remember, love?” he murmured.

Greg saw the flicker of surprise cross Sherlock’s face at the endearment. He wondered if Mycroft had seen it too, but refrained from looking, lest he draw attention to it. Instead, he asked John, “Who was working that poisoner case with you, was it Dimmock?”

John nodded, relieved for the change of topic, and they started a slightly-over enthusiastic conversation about recent interesting cases. Mummy was drawn into it, ensuring that any further exploration of their backstory would wait for at least a little while.

+++

After dinner, further conversation about their respective relationships successfully avoided, Mummy suggested their guests get themselves unpacked and retire early, ready for the morrow.

“Surely you’re all tired after a long week, then dinner with the parents!” She said teasingly, and John and Greg both nodded agreeably. Sherlock and Mycroft reluctantly agreed, too, and they all rose from the table. John offered himself and Sherlock to help clear the table, which Mummy accepted delightedly. Sherlock frowned but started stacking plates.

Just as Greg was about to offer his own services, Mycroft grabbed his hand and pulled him out of the room.

“What-” Greg started, but he was dragged halfway up the stairs and pushed against the wall on the landing. Mycroft was standing close, his breath warm in Greg’s ear, hands firm on his hips. Greg’s heart was pounding, his eyes wide as they tried to adjust to the darkened staircase and the proximity to Mycroft.

“If we wait here a few moments,” Mycroft breathed, the air tickling Greg’s hair and making goosebumps rise on his skin, “the others will come up this staircase.”

“Wanting to be caught, Mycroft?” Greg teased, the slight disappointment at the reminder that this was not real tugging at him even as his body responded.

“Of course,” Mycroft murmured, kissing his earlobe. Greg whimpered at the contact, his neck arching instinctively.

“Starting a bit early, aren’t you?” Greg asked, though why he had no idea. Who cared why when Mycroft’s beautiful lips were nuzzling at his ear?

“Want to be believable,” Mycroft replied, dropping kisses down Greg’s neck, “and, did you have something better to do while we wait?”

Greg blinked for a moment, processing that. “Hang on-” he started, wanting to know what Mycroft meant by that comment, but the younger man’s mouth drew a wet trail across his cheek towards his lips. Greg groaned as Mycroft’s open mouth claimed his own. What the hell had gotten into him? This was not the same man with whom he had spent the week building trust and understanding, despite his inexperience. This was hot, and passionate, and damn it if Greg wasn’t completely turned on. He kissed back, hard, dipping his tongue into Mycroft’s mouth, wanting to taste him. Mycroft’s breathing was audible, his hands still trapping Greg against wall, as Greg’s were cupping his face, thumbs tracing cheekbones as their tongues danced. Greg moaned again, the sensation of Mycroft pinning him to the wall combined with his impassioned kissing making sparks fly up and down his body. Heat had started to pool in his groin, and he knew it wasn’t long before the evidence of his arousal would be clear to Mycroft, close as their bodies were. The sparks doubled when he heard a soft groan come from Mycroft, and he realised that Mycroft was not entirely immune to their situation. Greg made to pull back, to push Mycroft back so he could look at him, but as he did, a voice from the bottom of the stairs shattered the moment.

“Oh for-”

“SHERLOCK!”

“But Mummy, really? Other people need to use these stairs too, and Mycroft’s bedroom is not that far away.”  It was clearly Sherlock and Mummy, and Greg assumed Father and John were not far behind. He and Mycroft broke away from each other, a genuine blush on both pairs of cheeks. They were panting, both trying to control their breathing without looking at each other or any of the group now moving up the stairs.

“Goodnight, boys,” Mummy murmured as she walked past. Father just nodded, John the same, and Sherlock scowled again.

“Happy?” Greg muttered, annoyed that he was still turned on, annoyed that he now had several questions for Mycroft, and annoyed that this was not real, despite the apparent effect he had on Mycroft.

“I think we made our point.” Mycroft replied, though Greg noticed he did not look directly at him. Greg followed him up the stairs, hissing, “And what was that, exactly?”

Mycroft stopped to look at him. “That we can’t keep our hands off each other, obviously.”

“Well that seems to be true enough,” Greg muttered, a bad mood descending on him.

Mycroft looked at him for a moment, frowning, before opening a door and inviting Greg in.


	8. Pillow Talk (Friday night)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John & Sherlock, and Greg & Mycroft discuss the events of the evening, with varying effects on their respective relationships.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the point that Johnlock and Mystrade started taking quite different paths. I'd thought they'd be in parallel initially, but their dynamics are so different that it's just going to happen that way. I've added an extra chapter, and there might even be another, as the boys keep adding things that I haven't planned on!  
> *fictional characters can be sentient*

John followed Sherlock into his bedroom, closing the door gently as Sherlock paced around the room, clearly agitated. John saw their bags, neatly sitting on the seat by the window, and he moved over to unpack for both of them, allowing Sherlock to vent his frustration. He tuned out of the rant, knowing it would be about Mycroft and Greg. It only took him a few minutes to empty their bags, after which he tuned back into Sherlock, trying to see how close he was to winding down.

“…knew we would have to come up those stairs, he and Garry obviously planted themselves there to get caught. Why can’t he just piss off?” Sherlock paused here for breath, and John looked at him, assessing his irritation level. Sherlock looked grumpily back, then continued, “He must have known that you and I were coming here, otherwise he would never have organized this. It’s just his way of making sure I don’t get anything to myself. How could he have known?” Before John could offer a reply, Sherlock answered his own question. “Of course, he must have bugged Baker Street again. Damn it!” John, of course, knew he was wrong, although it was entirely possible, even probable, that Mycroft had bugged Baker Street. Right now it was easier to let that go. The last thing John wanted was to draw Sherlock’s considerable attention to how Mycroft might have known about their plan.

Sherlock was still pacing agitatedly, one hand scratching at his head as he glanced at John. “You did well today, John. You were a credible partner. That, erm, that thing that you, er, that you did – that, um” he cleared his throat, nervously, “thing you called me. That was um, good.” John frowned, having no idea what Sherlock was talking about. Sherlock could see it written all over his face, of course, so he expanded with an exaggerated sigh, “When you told me I was sharing too much information.” A blank look must still have shown on John’s face, because Sherlock, with a flush up his face and an almost shout, “You called me ‘love’!”

John stared at him in shock. “Did I?” he asked. Most of the evening was a blur, between his tension at the topic of conversation and his focus on keeping Sherlock from killing Mycroft, and he couldn’t remember dropping the endearment into his speech. Glancing at Sherlock, John tried to gauge his reaction. He’d been flushed, certainly, but after his explosive statement, Sherlock had turned away, sitting on the bed with his head in his hands. John replayed their conversation. It had been ‘good’ that he’d called Sherlock ‘love’?

“Um, what do you mean?” John asked. Sherlock didn’t move, but he answered, “I meant what I said. It was good.”

“No, I mean, why did you think it was good?” John explained, his heart pounding. His hands were steady, which was, oddly enough, a sign he was under considerable stress.

Sherlock ran his fingers through his curls, as John longed to do, then spoke quietly. “I don’t know. It’s convincing, certainly.” He paused, and John sat carefully on the bed next to him. “It was…appropriate.” From so close, John could see the frown on his face, the anguish as he tried to put into words something entirely new.

“Would it be right,” John asked carefully, “if I said that you liked hearing me say something nice. To you.” There was a long moment, and Sherlock nodded, tiny and tentative. John swallowed, knowing the balance of the moment was delicate. “Is that because it was something nice,” John hesitated, then plunged forward, “or because it was me?”

“Both, I believe.” Sherlock’s voice was low but his tone was certain. The tension was thrumming through John, and he wondered what would happen if he touched Sherlock right now. Before he could make a decision, Sherlock spoke again.

“I don’t ever recall someone referring to me as anything other than my name. Not something nice, at least.” He said.

John blinked. “Never?” John asked, and Sherlock’s curls bounced as he shook his head.

“Not even as a child?” John pressed.

Sherlock answered, “For a long time I was William. Not Will, or Liam, or any other contraction thereof. Nobody ever did shorten my name, so I did not realise it was even possible, let alone desirable. My parents always used my name, or referred to us as ‘the boys’. Casual endearments have never been part of our family, and there has never been anyone else inclined to direct such things at me.”

John’s heart ached for the little boy so starved for casual affection. Without thinking, he wrapped one arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock immediately turned in to him, his head dropping awkwardly onto John’s shoulder. Lovely as it was, John knew it couldn’t last in such an uncomfortable position.

“Hang on,” John said, and he shifted, sitting up against the headboard of the bed. He patted the space next to him, and Sherlock stared for a long moment, before scrambling up the bed and next to John. Sherlock buried his head in John’s shoulder, one arm snaking around his neck like a small child. John wrapped his own arms around the detective, unable to stop himself tilting his head to inhale the scent of his hair. They made themselves comfortable, John both marveling at his fortune in having Sherlock in his arms, in a bed, no less, and feeling guilty for how vulnerable Sherlock must be feeling to seek out John in such a manner. Sighing, John tightened his arms around Sherlock, trying to pour all his love and affection into the embrace, to comfort him as he wrestled with this new paradigm they seemed to be constructing around themselves. The new environment was bringing out a side of Sherlock he may not have even remembered, and John was both fascinated and wary. He was learning a lot about Sherlock this weekend, and none of it made loving him any easier.

+++

_Meanwhile, down the corridor…_

It was definitely the wine, Greg thought grumpily to himself. He knew that it was irrational to be upset that his pretend-relationship was in fact not real, but he was still out of sorts. It must be the wine affecting Mycroft, because his behaviour was not typical at all. It was nothing like the man he had been working with all week. Mycroft’s sudden assertiveness was disconcerting, partly because it was such a turn on, partly because this was not what he had signed up for. Greg had no idea how he could keep his arousal at bay if Mycroft continued to act in such a manner all weekend. He’d thought he would be in control, could make sure nothing got so intense that he tipped his hand until he was sure of Mycroft. Now, that idea was out the window.

His mood was also affected by the comments Mycroft had made during their snog on the stairs, and he intended to press Mycroft for answers. As soon as they entered the bedroom, Greg turned to him, asking immediately, “What was that about, then?”

Mycroft froze. “What?” he asked, looking remarkably like a child caught with his hand in the biscuit tin.

“You just pushed me against the wall and snogged me for the express purpose of being caught by your family!” Greg exploded.

Mycroft blinked, then sat on the edge of the bed. “I did, didn’t I?” He replied, and the edge to his voice made Greg pause.

“It was a bit unexpected.” Greg said with less heat.

Mycroft winced. “I apologise, Gregory,” he said, his tone sincere and, Greg could hear, just a little bit mortified. “I believe my competitive nature with my brother may have influenced my behaviour.” He shook his head, then winced again, touching his temple.

“Along with the wine?” Greg asked wryly, his anger having melted away.

“Along with the wine.” Mycroft conceded.

Greg sank down to sit next to him on the bed. “Hey,” he said softly, nudging Mycroft’s shoulder with his own. Mycroft looked hesitantly at him, and Greg grinned. “I had nothing better to do anyway.” Mycroft nodded, then groaned, dropping his head in his hands. Greg laughed as he saw the tips of Mycroft’s ears going red. “It was a good snog, Mycroft.” he whispered, and Mycroft shook his head a little, still embarrassed by his actions.

“It’s fine.” he said, one hand resting on the back of Mycroft’s neck. The casual touches seemed natural now, and he let the heat from his hand bleed into Mycroft’s body. “I assume you were a little annoyed at Sherlock’s display at the front entrance?” Mycroft nodded into his hands.

Greg chuckled and stood, pulling Mycroft up. “You’ve had a lot more wine than usual, and a long week,” Greg said, “even by your standards.”

“Let’s get changed and turn in, shall we?” Mycroft nodded, then glanced at the bed and froze. His face turned beet red so fast that Greg worried he’d have a stroke. Best head this one off before Mycroft bolts for the hills, he thought.

“I hope you’re not an octopus, that bed’s plenty big enough for the both of us.” Greg said, but Mycroft looked doubtful. Greg pulled out the trump card. “What are the chances of your mother bringing us breakfast in bed? Or Sherlock bursting in unannounced?” The look on Mycroft’s face told his that each of those scenarios were likely enough to negate the idea of one of them sleeping on the floor.

+++

Half an hour later, bags unpacked, suits hung (in Mycroft’s case) and ablutions complete, Greg had the entirely surreal experience of climbing into bed with Mycroft Holmes. In Mycroft’s bed. In Mycroft’s parents’ house. They were both dressed, of sorts, he in tracksuit pants and Mycroft in perfectly pressed pyjamas, but still. He had to grin at the whole scenario, which was completely insane when you looked at it from that perspective. Or any perspective, really.

“Is something amusing?” Mycroft asked, settling himself down. He looked over at Greg.

“Not really.” Greg replied.

They lay in silence for a few moments until Mycroft said quietly, “You did an exemplary job today, Gregory. Thank you.”

“No problem.” Greg said. After a few more moments he asked, “What did you and Sherlock talk about on the patio this afternoon?” Mycroft rolled his eyes, and Greg sensed an interesting explanation. He turned, propping his head up on one elbow as he looked at Mycroft.

“Word games,” Mycroft answered critically, before elaborating, “We are each aware of the other’s subterfuge, however an agreement was made not to discuss it, nor reveal it to our parents over the course of the weekend.” Greg digested that for a moment, figuring out what Mycroft was saying.

“Right, okay,” he said, “So Sherlock knows we’re…” he trailed off, it seeming odd and a little gauche to say, ‘faking it’, especially when they were in bed together, gossiping like an old married couple. Mycroft nodded. Again, silence fell, the only sound the wind in the trees outside. Mycroft reached over and turned out his light, and the room was bathed in darkness apart from the light of the moon. Greg settled on his stomach against his pillow, staring into the dark. Once Greg’s eyes adjusted, he glanced over to Mycroft, making out the shape of his face as he looked at Greg. Well, in his direction, anyway.

“Was there something?” Greg whispered, his tone deliberately teasing.

“No…” Mycroft managed to sound quite unsure, despite the definitive answer.

“Okay then.” Greg replied. He could feel Mycroft’s mind working, and he had a sudden insight into Sherlock. This must be what it was like for him, when he said he could hear people thinking. He was right, too, it was annoying.

“I can hear you thinking.” Greg said, and he could imagine the smile crossing Mycroft’s face.

“I enjoyed kissing you on the stairs, Gregory.” Mycroft admitted in a whisper.

Greg’s heart practically stopped, then made up for it by galloping away at a frantic pace. “Okay.” Greg said, not sure where Mycroft was going, if in fact he had a destination in mind. A few moments passed, and Greg wondered if he’d fallen asleep.

“I didn’t expect to,” Mycroft went on. “I was satisfied that you would be a plausible match for me, as well as being reasonable company for the rest of the trip. So far, this weekend has not met my expectations.” Greg lay in the darkness listening to Mycroft’s admission. Perhaps it really was the wine, or maybe the darkness, or even both, but this was more of the man he had been getting to know this week. He was more vulnerable now, stripped back further than Greg had seen, and he was pretty sure he’d been invited in further than perhaps anybody. Greg could hear his confusion, and a little fear, at the unexpectedness of his experiences.

Hesitantly, Greg reached one hand out, aiming for where he thought Mycroft’s shoulder was. His aim was true, and he rested his hand there, attempting to comfort without alarming him. Mycroft stiffened, then relaxed, his opposite hand coming up to cover Greg’s. They lay like that for a moment, before Mycroft turned towards Greg without letting go. They ended up lying on their stomachs, facing each other, hands joined in between. Neither spoke, but Greg knew they were staring through the darkness into each others’ eyes.

Bloody hell, he thought, this is not how I thought my weekend would play out.


	9. Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Greg exchange notes, and some plans are made for their Saturday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason, the Andrews Sisters song, 'Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree' seemed wonderfully appropriate here. I think it's very John and Sherlock, given its wartime roots and light treatment of an actually heartfelt message. So please it could work in this story!

John rolled his shoulder as he descended the stairs. Sleeping most of the night half sitting up with Sherlock tucked into him may sound romantic and delightful, but in reality, it was rubbish for his neck and shoulder. At some point he’d awakened enough to wriggle them down to a more horizontal position, but by then the damage was done. He’d woken early, and left Sherlock sleeping, spread across the bed like a curly haired octopus.

Making his way into the dining room, John found nobody, so he headed tentatively into the kitchen. The house was quiet, but he followed the smell of coffee and found Greg, dressed as he was in jeans and a t-shirt, pouring coffee into a mug. At the sight of John he nodded and poured a second cup, sliding it across the bench to him. Greg’s hair was a disaster of silver and dark grey. He’d clearly been running his hands through it regularly since dawn or so.

“Hey.” Greg greeted him, his voice low and gravelly.

John offered half a smile. “Late night?” he asked, and Greg rolled his eyes at the innuendo.

“Only in as much as sharing a bed with someone unaccustomed to it is a nightmare.” He replied, and John sniggered.

 Greg raised his eyebrows. “You don’t look all that rested either, my friend.” He noted.

John shrugged, then rolled his shoulder. “I slept mostly sitting up. Sherlock was pretty upset about you and Mycroft.” Greg nodded, understanding the subtext of comforting required for that situation.

“Mycroft was pissed about that show you guys put on at the front door.” Greg admitted. He wasn’t accusatory, just matter of fact.

“That was all Sherlock.” John protested.

Greg made a rude noise into his coffee. “Takes two to snog like that, last time I checked.” He said.

Jon replied instantly, “When you checked on the stairs last night, you mean?”

Greg flushed, and John chuckled. “We’re fucked, aren’t we?”

Greg offered his mug, and John touched it with his own. “Our motto for the weekend, for sure.” They grinned at each other, both knowing they were in much deeper than they’d thought, and savouring every second of it.

“While they’re not around,” Greg said, leaning in out of habit, “Mycroft told me that they both know that this is all a farce, but they’ve agreed not to say anything to their parents for the weekend.”

John blinked at this, processing it. “So does that mean…what the hell does that mean?” He was confused at how this affected him.

Greg shrugged. “No idea. Thought you should know, though. You know, in case you need to call bullshit or something.” They grinned at each other for a moment, before Greg asked, “So, do you have any plans for today?”

John shook his head, mouth too full of coffee to answer. When he’d swallowed it, he replied, “I thought we should try and do something couple-y. Something that gets us out and looking around the grounds or down to the village or something.”

Greg nodded. “That’s what I was thinking. It would be good to have some one on one time. We could sell it by asking in front of Mummy, she’d be all enthusiastic about anything romantic.” he mused.

John agreed. “Mmmm. The weather looks pretty good. Maybe a picnic?” The idea came from the wicker picnic baskets he could see stacked on the top of the dresser in the corner. He could picture a nice lunch, a blanket and some secluded little clearing near a stream…

Greg’s voice pulled him back to the present. “I think that’s a good plan. They boys are pretty competitive, too, we can use that to help convince them if we need to.”

John nodded, then frowned a bit, before his face cleared. “Competition. Is that what the snog on the stairs was about?” he asked, pointing a finger at Greg and grinning. Greg confirmed it with a bashful grin and a shrug, and they were both chuckling at this when Mycroft came downstairs.

“Good morning,” Mycroft said, directing his comment to both Greg and John. He kept moving over to Greg, sliding one arm around his waist and peering into his coffee cup. At the sight of the coffee, he turned up his nose, and Greg grinned affectionately.

“I’ll make you some tea.” Greg offered, kissing his cheek before turning to fill the kettle. Mycroft smiled back at him, eyes following Greg as he pottered around, searching for the things he needed to produce a pot of tea. John sat quietly, watching Mycroft as his eyes followed Greg. John’s head had tilted as he considered Mycroft. After a moment, the elder Holmes glanced at John, who raised an amused, knowing eyebrow at him. An immediate flush came over Mycroft, who hurried to the back door, muttering something about the newspaper delivery. John grinned, knowing that Mycroft had revealed too much, and knowing that Mycroft knew, too. Greg was a lucky bastard, he thought, provided he could get Mycroft to open up. Pondering his own situation with Sherlock, John sighed.

“What’s that for?” Greg asked, concentrating on the loose tea leaves.

John was conscious of Mycroft’s presence as he circled around to sit again at the bench, so he simply answered, “Nothing.”

Greg looked up, figured why John was evading his question, and nodded in understanding. “Here you go,” Greg murmured to Mycroft, presenting him a tray bearing a pot of tea, teacup, sugar bowl and milk jug.

Mycroft smiled at it, then placed his hand over Greg’s. “Thank you, Gregory.” He replied quietly, and the look they shared was so intimate that John looked away.

His glance happened on the door of the kitchen, where he noticed Sherlock standing, scowling at the scene before him. “Morning, sleepyhead.” John said, seeing the frustration of the little brother beneath the glare. He slid off his own seat and approached Sherlock, winking at him as he came closer and his face was hidden from Mycroft. John ran his hands up Sherlock’s chest and into his hair, tugging his head down for a kiss. John deliberately groaned as their lips met, and he felt Sherlock’s arms wrap around him and lift his feet off the ground. He heard Mycroft’s disgusted noise in response, and Sherlock held him there for another beat before releasing him. “How are you feeling after,” John dropped his voice a little, still allowing it to carry to the rest of the room, “last night?” He had to steel himself not to laugh at the insinuation.

Sherlock’s eyes widened when he realised what John was playing at. He ducked his head to John’s ear, speaking loud enough to be heard. “Too much information, remember love?” Sherlock whispered in a completely ineffective _sotto voce_.

His breath on John’s neck made goosebumps appear, and he shivered. John giggled at that, and they looked at each other for a long moment before John said, “Tea?”

Sherlock nodded, then paced restlessly around to the window, looking out at the early morning. “We should do something outside today,” he announced, though everybody understood he was addressing John, “it appears the chance of rain is minimal.” Greg and John exchanged a glance. Perfect opening.

“Sounds good.” John said. He paused as though in thought. “What about a picnic? There are baskets over there, you could show me around the estate.” He brought Sherlock’s tea over and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist, squeezing him. Sherlock looked down at John, his eyes sparkling, and a shiver went through John. Even though he knew that the exhilaration in his eyes was largely from messing with Mycroft, John felt that a small part of it was for him. They were a team, for the weekend at least, and that was enough for John. For right now, at least.

Behind them, Mycroft cleared his throat. “Perhaps that’s a good idea, Gregory.” he suggested. Sherlock and John turned as one unit, arms still around each other, and John did not have to look up to see that Sherlock was glaring at his brother again.

For his part, Greg was looking at Mycroft adoringly, though Mycroft’s mocking gaze had settled on Sherlock. “That sounds great.” Greg agreed, and dropped a kiss on Mycroft’s temple.

“You can’t come with us.” Sherlock declared, and Mycroft rolled his eyes at the statement.

“Of course not, Sherlock, we can go in different-”

“We’re going out to the apple tree, you can find somewhere else.” Sherlock cut his brother off, then explained to John, “It’s the nicest place around here. We can sit under the tree and…” he stopped as Mycroft softly started singing,

_“Don’t sit under the apple tree,_

_With anyone else but me,_

_Anyone else but me,_

_Anyone else but me._

_Don’t sit under the apple tree,_

_‘til I come marching home…”_

As Sherlock opened his mouth to make a comment, Mummy came into the kitchen, looking fondly at the four of them and their apparently domestic scene.

“Good morning, boys!” She beamed at all of them.

Sherlock smiled at his mother, taking advantage of Mycroft sniggering to himself to say, “John and I are going to make a picnic to take to the apple tree today.”

Mummy patted his cheek fondly, and replied, “That’s a wonderful idea, Sherlock. Reminds me of that song by the Andrews Sisters, actually…” She hummed a few bars of ‘Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree’, and Mycroft, Greg and even John broke into various intensities of laughter.

“What?” Mummy asked, bewildered.

Mycroft choked out, “We had just made that same point to Sherlock, Mummy.”

“Oh.” She said, then looked severely at Mycroft. “I hope you were being nice to your brother.” Mycroft glowered as Sherlock smirked at him from behind Mummy’s back.

Greg cleared his throat to dispel the tension, offering, “We thought we’d do the same, in a different direction, of course.”

“Up to the old folly, I thought.” Mycroft added, and Mummy nodded approvingly.

“Well it’s a gorgeous day for it,” she said, looking out the window at the white and blue streaked sky. They all murmured agreement.

“We could call James, have him put the picnics together,” Mummy suggested as she made herself a pot of tea. Both Mycroft and Sherlock agreed to this. Mummy explained to John and Greg, “James owns the café in town. He bakes all his own breads and pastries, grows most of the produce, and generally has the best food around here. He won’t mind putting together a couple of picnics for you. You could walk to the village first,” this last part was directed at her sons, and appeared to be a thinly veiled instruction, “collect the food, then circle around in opposite directions to the apple tree or the folly.” Both her sons considered this, then agreed, a wary eye on the other brother.

Mummy rolled her eyes at their competitive nature.  “You’re both lucky,” she said to John and Greg as she started piling breakfast foods on the bench, “the boys found you both at the same time. If they thought it was a competition, we’d all be in trouble.” She disappeared into the pantry at this, and all four men traded significant looks at this.

“Oh for- I’m going to have a shower, I’ll be back down later.” John grumbled, leaving without looking at anybody.

“Trouble in paradise, brother?” Mycroft asked silkily, and Sherlock shot him a withering glance before settling on the loveseat in the corner and closing his eyes.

“Be nice.” Murmured Greg, leaning over to speak into Mycroft’s ear.

Mycroft looked at him in surprise.

“John’s finding this harder than he thought.” Greg admitted, not wanting to betray his friend, but needing Mycroft to be gentler on them both. There was no hope for John and Sherlock while John spent all his time soothing Sherlock’s bruised ego.

Mycroft was frowning. “In what way?” he asked curiously.

Greg chose his words carefully. “John is enjoying his closeness with Sherlock more than he anticipated.” Mycroft raised one eyebrow at this. Greg went on, “He’s hoping that he can see if Sherlock might be open to a real relationship this weekend, but so far he’s spent all his time comforting Sherlock.”

“Comforting?” Mycroft murmured, aware now that his mother was pottering behind them, cracking eggs and making toast.

“Sherlock’s been…upset, too.” Greg told him, hating the betrayal but determined that John and Sherlock have the same shot as he and Mycroft seemed to be getting. He watched Mycroft’s face, the emotions dancing openly across it. Greg loved that Mycroft was like this here, rather than the inscrutable mask he showed the rest of the world. It was more intimate than he probably realised, and Greg cherished it. Impulsively, he reached out, one thumb caressing Mycroft’s cheekbone as his fingers cradled Mycroft’s jaw. Mycroft’s eyes flickered over, meeting Greg’s as Greg smiled gently at him.

“It’s not a competition,” Greg murmured softly, “but Sherlock thinks it is. Let’s let him have a few, shall we?”

Mycroft was still looking at Greg, eyes wide as Greg’s thumb still rubbed over his slightly rough cheek. He swallowed hard, then nodded. “I will do my best.” Mycroft allowed.

Greg leaned in and kissed the spot his thumb had been rubbing over. He felt Mycroft shiver, and his suspicion from the previous evening strengthened. He smiled. “Thank you.” This picnic would be very interesting indeed, Greg thought to himself. For them, and for John and Sherlock.


	10. Picnic at the Folly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Greg's picnic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Folly: a costly ornamental building with no practical purpose, especially a tower or mock-Gothic ruin built in a large garden or park.

The four men set off together from the house, waved off by Mummy and Father Holmes. Breakfast had been surprisingly calm, mainly because John had not come back down after he’d stomped off. Sherlock had gone after him, and neither had been seen again until they’d appeared mid-morning, ready to leave for the picnic. Greg and Mycroft had been sitting in the front room, talking quietly and wondering if one of them should go up and ask if their plans were still in place. Greg was relieved to see John and Sherlock hand in hand as they came down the stairs. Each seemed fairly relaxed, and Greg’s ‘you okay, mate?’ look to John was rewarded with a, ‘yeah, sorry about that’ look. So they were good, and from the look of it, so were John and Sherlock. Greg was relieved. This picnic was a good opportunity for John and Sherlock to perhaps have an important conversation, and a bad mood from either of them would ruin it.

“There you are! I was thinking you might have lost track of time.” Mummy said, looking knowingly at John, who immediately blushed furiously. She had bustled in from the kitchen, trailed by Father. He seemed to be the quiet, mild type to Greg, who’d barely heard him say a whole sentence since they had arrived. Quite the contrast to Mummy.

“We’re ready, thank you.” Sherlock replied for both of them, ignoring Mummy’s insinuation. Greg and Mycroft rose from the settee together, entwining their fingers as a matter of half-formed habit. Father was waiting now with a large picnic basket and a picnic blanket for each pair, which he gave to his sons with a smile. Meanwhile, Mummy brushed off the shoulders of the almost casual jacket Sherlock was wearing, looking admiringly at the jeans and less formal shirt that John had convinced him to wear.

“You look lovely, Sherlock.” She said, then turned to Mycroft, giving him the same once over. He was also in more casual clothes, jeans and a dark shirt that made Greg’s mouth water. He had never seen Mycroft looking so far from his suits, with the exception of his pyjamas last night, and the effect was highly desirable. A smile crossed his mouth as Mycroft rolled his eyes, enduring his mothers’ fussing, before picking up the picnic basket and blanket and saying to the room in general, “Shall we go, then?”

They all kissed Mummy goodbye, then made their way out the door, Mummy and Father standing in the doorway and waving them off, she with a particular smile on her face. Greg made sure he and Mycroft were holding hands again, and he noticed that John and Sherlock were doing the same. It seemed so natural, now, he wondered what things would be like once they returned to London. He might not see Mycroft for days or even weeks, and John and Sherlock would surely have the most awkward living arrangements in London, assuming they both stayed at Baker Street. Shaking off the melancholy thought, Greg looked instead at Mycroft, who raised his eyebrows in a gentle enquiry. It made Greg smile, which was the point, dragging his mood back up to the light.

“Which way?” Greg asked when they hit the road. Mycroft steered them to the right, and he and Greg made sure they walked at a pace to match the other couple, despite the irritated looks Sherlock was throwing them. It was only a mile or so to the village, and once they’d collected their food, they would turn in different directions. Greg wanted Mycroft and Sherlock to have some kind of interaction in which Sherlock did not work himself into a huff. He and Mycroft had been discussing it this morning in the front room, and Mycroft had somewhat reluctantly agreed to at least make an effort. Greg hoped that eventually, he could explain and apologise to John for breaking his confidence a little, but this was important.

“Do you remember the time we went fishing?” Mycroft said to Sherlock, pointing with his basket laden hand across a field at a stream.

Sherlock looked a little startled that Mycroft was asking a question, but he followed the direction of his brother’s hand, then broke into a hesitant smile. “As I recall, we caught a total of nothing.”

Mycroft agreed. “Who was it that convinced us it would be a good idea?”

Sherlock replied instantly, “Thomas Bartrage. Son of the gardener, aged exactly between the two of us, pushed on to us by Father, of all people.”

“Ahh, yes.” Mycroft replied, a ghost of a fond smile crossing his face. He glanced at Greg, who squeezed his hand encouragingly. They all fell into silence, though it was different to the slightly strained atmosphere that had been present when they had left. Greg could see that Sherlock was a little puzzled, but John was completely amazed. He’d probably never seen the brothers converse without a covert agenda, Greg thought, and then realised that he never had either. It was a small moment, but significant. Greg hoped it was the buoy his friend needed to make an advancement in his relationship with Sherlock.

+++

They collected their picnics without delay, and at the end of the village, Sherlock turned left where Mycroft turned right. John and Greg exchanged subtle ‘good luck, mate’ looks, and the couples separated as each sought their picnic spot.

“Tell me about the folly.” Greg said to Mycroft, a flutter moving through his chest at the measured sound of his voice. He listened with half an ear as Mycroft spoke of the history of the unique building. This was, essentially, their first date. The first time they’d been out together without anybody else since the weekend had started. It seemed like a lifetime ago, yet it was less than a week that he had basically manipulated Mycroft into inviting him here. Their hesitant beginnings had blown out last night, when Mycroft had rather tipped his hand, and the level of intimacy they had reached since then was remarkable. They had fallen asleep hand in hand like lovers, and Greg had woken the next morning as the little spoon in their shared bed. Mycroft’s arm had pinned him to the mattress, his breath warm and steady against Greg’s shoulder. He’d managed to extricate himself without waking Mycroft, but the fact was that they had sought each other out in the night. His heart beat faster at the idea that this picnic might be an opportunity for the unspoken to become explicit.

Without warning, Mycroft stopped. Greg took an extra step, then was pulled back by their entwined hands. He looked at Mycroft, and the knowing look said it all.

“Sorry,” Greg apologized. “I haven’t heard a single word.”

Mycroft smiled at him. “I know. You were off in your head, as John would say.”

“I was,” Greg admitted, “but I was thinking about you. Does that count?” The honest answer had come to him without thinking, and a flash of panic crossed him. Would Mycroft expect their behaviour to change now that they were alone? There was nobody to pretend for here, though they were still holding hands. His panic must have been evident in his face, because Mycroft’s surprise softened, and he leaned in and brushed his lips over Greg’s, gentle as a butterfly.

“Of course it does.” He murmured, and straightened. His ears were pink at the tips, the only evidence of his reaction to their exchange. Mycroft cleared his throat as Greg tried to bring himself back down to earth.

“The folly is this way.” Mycroft indicated a side path, and Greg allowed himself to be pulled up this path, which seemed to lead into the open woods they’d be skirting since leaving the village. The path was overgrown and almost gone in some places, fallen leaves obscuring the way. Mycroft clearly knew where he was going, moving with a surety and excitement that amused Greg. When they finally reached the top of a gentle slope, Greg stopped.

“Oh.” He said, looking at the space before them. There was a clearing, within sat a low, decorative wall. The wall was standing solid, though it was unlike anything Greg had seen. It was a low, stone structure, heading straight through the clearing until it suddenly twisted and turned on itself, before continuing again right to the trees. There were actually two structures, he could see now; two separate walls that twisted to form one design without ever actually meeting. Greg had never seen anything like it.

“I loved this place,” Mycroft admitted as they made their way down the slope towards the building. “I’d come here all the time.” Greg tried to imagine Mycroft as a boy, seeking the quiet and solitude of this amazing place. There was barely a sound, just the occasional bird or rustle of a small animal. The silence was like a cocoon, surrounding them and insulating them from the rest of the world. Greg followed as Mycroft circled the flowing shape, running his hand along the rough stone, where it rose to hip level on the taller man. He seemed to be reacquainting himself with something special, so Greg let the quiet stretch on until they reached the space created by the almost meeting of the two walls. Greg hesitated, but Mycroft reached down to take his hand, and they slipped into the space, following the spiral around to the small open area in the middle of the design. Without speaking, Mycroft spread out their blanket, and they both sank down to sit. The cushion of fallen leaves below their blanket softened the ground, and Greg stretched back, leaning against the wall. Now that they were seated, the walls enveloped them, completing the cocoon effect.

“Wow,” Greg said, breaking the silence. Mycroft had settled himself across from Greg, the space small enough that his outstretched feet touched the opposite side, next to Greg’s hip.

“It was my own little universe,” Mycroft said, his eyes roving over the familiar stones, smiling at his memories. “Nobody would disturb me, and I was invisible to the world.”

“We’re invisible?” Greg asked, sitting up straighter to try and peer over the top. He couldn’t see, and looked over to Mycroft.

“I’ve examined it from every angle. Even the slight rise from which we entered makes the angle of observation insufficient to see people sitting in this space.” Greg grinned at Mycroft, the explanation somehow adorably _Mycroft._ He rested his hand on Mycroft’s shin, and said, “Shall we investigate this picnic, then?” Mycroft agreed, and they opened the basket to see what James had packed for them.

+++

As they finished up the feast, Greg asked, “So what’s the story with this? It’s not like any folly I’ve ever seen.”

Mycroft nodded, swallowed, and remarked, “I’ll tell you, but only if you’ll listen this time.”

Greg rolled his eyes theatrically, then put aside his almost empty plate and tucked his legs under, scooting over to sit right beside Mycroft, looking at him with exaggerated devotion. “I can’t wait, tell me now.” He begged breathlessly, then collapsed in laughter as Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically.

“That’s the same face you make when you have to deal with Sherlock.” Greg gasped, a fresh wave of laughter coming over him at the expression that followed.

“Dealing with you is nothing like dealing with my brother.” Mycroft said, though his mouth was twitching as he watched Greg struggle to compose himself.

“No, no really, I want to know.” Greg insisted, pulling himself upright and sitting next to Mycroft. He looked at Mycroft seriously, waiting.

Warily, Mycroft began to speak. “This folly was built in 1962 by Bruce Robinson. He lived in the village until he followed his older brother to New Zealand to make his fortune. While he was there he met Akehata, a Maori woman. They fell in love, but her family refused to let her marry a pakeha, a white man. He returned here to the village, heartbroken.” Mycroft’s voice was mesmerizing, and Greg was entranced by the story. Mycroft paused and picked up Greg’s hand, tracing his finger slowly over the palm as he continued, watching the path his fingertip was taking along Greg’s skin. The sensation was hypnotic and arousing, the slow gentle friction of fingerprints over calluses making heat gather low in Greg’s belly. He swallowed hard and forced himself to listen to the rest of the story.

“Bruce Robinson did not own this land, but he knew the man who did, and he was sympathetic to the story. Bruce was drinking himself to death, and the landowner made him a proposal. In return for allowing Bruce to build the folly, the landowner required Bruce to remain sober. Bruce complied until the folly was complete, then he drowned himself in the stream.” Mycroft’s voice was quiet now, and the silence around them pressed in as Greg worked to concentrate on his voice and not the caresses on his palm. “He said the design was inspired by the moko, the tribal tattoos the Maori wore. He built two walls from opposite sides of the clearing. They almost meet in the middle, but never actually come together. Like he and Akehata. Star crossed lovers, almost.” Greg could hardly breathe. Mycroft’s attention to his palm had drawn both of their eyes, and the sad, romantic story along with the leisurely touch made the atmosphere almost unbearable. Greg’s breath was audible, and it wasn’t until Mycroft’s breath caught when Greg closed his fingers over Mycroft’s that he realised Mycroft’s heavy breathing matched his own.

Greg looked up into Mycroft’s eyes and saw inevitability. Almost anything could happen now, and they would still find themselves in the same place, suspended in time, together. Greg’s fingers tightened over Mycroft’s, their hands slipping together as they had so many times already this weekend. Greg leaned forward, feeling breath on his face before he pressed his lips carefully against Mycroft’s. This felt different than their practice kisses, or even the half-unnecessary snog on the stairs last night. This was Greg kissing Mycroft because he wanted to, and because he knew Mycroft wanted him to. There was no audience, nobody to fool; just the two of them, breath loud in the silence. Greg’s heartbeat added a staccato beat, pounding as it was in his chest. Mycroft’s mouth was soft, and he parted his lips almost immediately, allowing Greg’s tongue to lick and stroke its way inside. Mycroft let out a groan at the sensation, and Greg knew then that Mycroft had moved past the game, past the subterfuge and acknowledged that this was Greg and Mycroft, rather than the fragile shell they had been presenting to his family. Greg brought his spare hand up to Mycroft’s face, feeling the smoothness of his jaw where he’d shaved this morning, and deepened the kiss, trying to pour his affection and reassurance into it, lest Mycroft alarm and retract himself from such an intimate moment. Sensing the change, Mycroft moaned again and pulled at Greg, urging him closer. Greg gasped as Mycroft untwined his fingers, both hands now on Greg’s hips, pulling him in closer to Mycroft, where he sat still against the folly wall. Greg started to pitch forward, so he swung one knee over, effectively straddling Mycroft. A loud groan came equally from both of them at the friction of two hard cocks rubbing together as Greg settled on Mycroft’s lap. The sudden noise spooked a bird, which flapped away, in turn startling Greg and Mycroft. Greg chuckled at their flinch, looking down now at Mycroft. He cradled Mycroft’s face in his hands, looking into those amazing eyes, blown wide with desire. Mycroft looked serious, like he’d been dragged out of the bubble of their passion and was now unsure what to do next. Greg smiled at him, then rolled his hips, eliciting a gasp from himself and a glorious, “Christ!” from Mycroft.

“Mr.Holmes,” Greg murmured against Mycroft’s parted lips, “Is that language really necessary?”

Mycroft actually growled at Greg, his hands grabbing Greg’s arse as he thrust his own hips up, grinding his erection hard into Greg’s. The response was immediate, Greg gasping, “Fuck, Mycroft!”

Mycroft, who had himself groaned at the contact, grinned at Greg. “I’d say so, Gregory, wouldn’t you?” They stared at each other for a long moment, before Greg started to chuckle, and Mycroft followed suit. Greg kissed Mycroft, gently this time, the passion having dissipated and leaving a lovely warm tenderness between them. Greg remained sitting on Mycroft’s lap, but their arousal slowly softened as they exchanged slow, exploratory kisses, hands on faces and backs and arms. It seemed pretty clear to Greg that their dynamic had changed, but he knew that Mycroft’s inexperience combined with a large and logical brain might very well jump to the wrong conclusion, so he decided he needed to be explicit.

“So,” Greg asked, between kisses, “Can I assume that this,” he paused again, “is us now, not just for your family, but,” he stopped and shrugged, not sure where that sentence was really going anyway. So much for precision. Mycroft, who appeared to be blissed out under the attentions of Greg, opened his eyes to look searchingly into Greg’s face. Greg stopped kissing him and looked back, sensing an important moment.

“Is that what you want, Gregory?” Mycroft asked quietly.

Greg nodded. “Very much.” He replied.

Mycroft gave a blazing smile at that, wider and more joyful than Greg had ever seen on him. “Me too.” He admitted, and Greg’s smile matched his. They kissed again, deeply, before Greg regretfully shifted, sliding off Mycroft’s lap to sit beside him. He took one of Mycroft’s hands, playing with his fingers and tracing designs on the back of his hand like a teenager.

“You should know,” Greg said, before he could talk himself out of it, “when I told you about Sherlock’s plan with John, I was hoping you would ask me to come with you.” He couldn’t bring himself to meet Mycroft’s eyes, not knowing how he would receive this information. Mycroft didn’t speak, though his body tensed a little, so Greg ploughed on. In for a penny, and all that. “John had told me about the plan with Sherlock, and I was worried about you, how your weekend would go. From what John told me about how your parents are, I thought it might be pretty uncomfortable. So I did want you to know, but I also really wanted you to ask me.”

“You had an ulterior motive.” Mycroft’s voice was quiet, though he sounded amused. Greg nodded, still tracing his finger along Mycroft’s soft skin.

“And how long has this – motive – been a factor for you?” Mycroft asked.

Greg translated that, then admitted, “A long time. I only realised this past Christmas, though.” Mycroft nodded. Greg’s heart was pounding again as he waited for Mycroft’s reaction. Part of him was thinking what an idiot he was – why on earth had he told Mycroft that? – whereas the other part knew it was the right thing to do. He wanted Mycroft to know as much of the truth as was his to tell. The plan, the original plan, was too much of John’s story for him to share. Hopefully, he’d be in a position to share that soon. Assuming Sherlock got himself together enough to give John a chance.

“And you thought, believed, there was no likelihood of you and I ever…” Mycroft’s question drifted off, an unusual event, Greg thought, though sitting in a folly having just rubbed his hard cock over Mycroft’s was a pretty unusual event in itself. He shook his head in answer to Mycroft’s question.

“I had no idea how to approach the idea,” he admitted, and Mycroft sighed.

“I find it difficult to be open to people,” he admitted, and Greg could hear the regret in his voice.

“No matter.” Greg said confidently, turning his head so he could look into Mycroft’s eyes. “You’ve got me now.” He was rewarded with a smile, and the gentlest of kisses. They sat like that, side by side in the folly until the light started to change, and Mycroft said, “We should go. The walk home will take us almost until dark.” Greg nodded, and they packed up their things before clasping hands once more and heading back.

“Excellent picnic.” Greg murmured.

Mycroft squeezed his hand. “Indeed.” He replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This](https://au.pinterest.com/pin/223139356517365272/) is the inspiration for Mycroft's folly, though his is two walls coming (almost) together.


	11. Picnic at the Apple Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock's picnic.

The day had almost been a write-off, John reflected after they parted ways from Mycroft and Greg. He’d overreacted before breakfast, but the tension of the weekend was taking it’s toll. His shoulder was sore, and the constant bickering between the brothers was doing his head in. He could see Greg and Mycroft getting closer, too, their easy intimacy grating on John. As he had stood in the shower that morning, he’d groaned. While he and Sherlock had been acting, it was wonderful, and John tried to convince himself that it was enough. But watching Greg, his fantasy blooming into life, just frustrated and depressed him. Despite their evening last night, when John had learned more about Sherlock’s past, they were no closer to extending their relationship. If Mycroft would just lay off him, John thought in frustration, he might be able to relax enough to concentrate on John. As it was, it looked like John was going to spend the whole weekend preventing the murder, or possibly suicide, of one Holmes or another. He rinsed his hair out and let the water run over him, avoiding going back downstairs.

A door slamming brought him around, barely a second before the en suite door burst open. Through the steam, John could see Sherlock’s outline. John froze for a moment, then turned off the water and stuck one arm out, groping for a towel. “What?” He asked shortly, pulling the towel around his waist. He stepped out of the shower and used another towel to roughly dry his torso and hair. His eyes never left Sherlock, who had seemed startled to have interrupted John in the shower. His eyes roved over John, following his toweled hands as they rubbed over his body. John noticed, and it only served to darken his mood.

“Er,” Sherlock was uncharacteristically dumbstruck. He shook his head, clearing it, and said, “Are you um, alright?”

John stared for a moment, then nodded once, shifting past Sherlock to leave the bathroom. He went over to find his clothes, very aware of the presence of Sherlock. He pulled on his pants under his towel, then quickly drew on jeans and a button down shirt. He looked down to fasten his buttons, oddly grateful for his steady hands. Sherlock had followed him out, standing awkwardly near the doorway of the bathroom.  John took a deep, calming breath, and turned to Sherlock. “I’m fine.”

Sherlock looked uncertainly at John. “Are you sure? Because you seem…” Sherlock trailed off.

John knew he had no idea how to articulate his thoughts. He sighed. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he rested his elbows on his knees. “Do you think it’s possible for you and Mycroft to have a conversation without being so…confrontational?” John asked.

Sherlock frowned. “No.” he replied, almost scoffing at the suggestion.

John nodded, unsurprised. “Do you think you could try?”

“Why?”

“Because…” John hesitated. “Look, Greg told me what you and Mycroft talked about last night. He knows that you and I aren’t…aren’t real. And you know that he and Greg started out that way.” Sherlock nodded reluctantly, not looking at John. “Can you see them, though, Sherlock? Can you see how they were this morning? Whatever they started as, it’s changing for them. Becoming real. They looked happy,” John said wistfully, then went on in a more earnest tone, “and we shouldn’t stop that from happening, if we can.”

Sherlock looked confused. “Why should we do anything?” he asked.

John’s look said, ‘wrong answer.’

Sherlock tried again, somewhat tentatively. “What can we do about it?” He asked.

John blew out a breath in frustration. “Just…be nice to your brother. Don’t even be nice,” he added, seeing the look on Sherlock’s face, “just, don’t be antagonistic. If he says something, don’t try and out do him, just agree, or don’t, but do it without being a dick!” the last bit got away from John a bit, but he could see that Sherlock understood. They both allowed the comfortable silence to spin out as they arranged their thoughts.

Sherlock said hesitantly, “Do you really think they’re genuine?”

John looked at Sherlock for a very long moment, then told him, “Greg’s been in love with your brother for years. If Mycroft has any interest in him at all, Greg wouldn’t turn him down.” John didn’t want to tell Sherlock about the plan, not yet. Perhaps one day, but right now, Sherlock would certainly freak out, destroying their chance and jeopardizing Greg and Mycroft’s. John sighed.

“I have no idea what Mycroft wants.” Sherlock admitted. He looked at John, then sat hesitantly on the bed, close enough to wrap one arm around John. He turned his head to John, resting his face on John’s temple – as close to a kiss as possible without lips actually making contact. Despite the thrill of having Sherlock so close, John’s mood did not completely lift. They sat like that for a long while, until John sighed, the melancholy still dancing around the edges of his mood, “We should get ready to go. I’m assuming you still want to go on this picnic?”

Sherlock nodded slowly, then said, “Yes. It seems that Greg and Mycroft would benefit from it, and they are more likely to go if we do not abort our own plans.” Right, so their picnic had nothing to do with themselves and everything to do with Greg and Mycroft, John thought bitterly. Buck-o for them, then.

+++

As they now followed a long worn track along a stream, John looked at their surroundings.  They were walking alongside a stream which wended its way through the open woodland.

“This is beautiful,” he said, taking in the scene. He’d not really noticed before, but the grass was lush and speckled with wildflowers, and up ahead, a giant willow tree bent over the stream.

Sherlock pointed to it. “That’s where we’re going.” He said.

 John felt his brow furrow in confusion. “I thought it was an apple tree?” He asked, and Sherlock just smiled a secret smile. When they reached the willow, Sherlock ducked under into the cool shade of the branches. The air was still, the light vaguely green from the curtain of leaves. It was entirely secluded here, quiet and calm, and John could see why a young Sherlock would seek it out. Sherlock put down their picnic supplies, then reached out to tug on John’s hand, pulling him back out into the gentle sunlight. He blinked in the brightness, and they made their way over to a gnarled old tree, which John could see bore what must be the last apples of the season.

“The apple tree,” Sherlock said proudly, and John grinned at his enthusiasm. Sherlock was looking at the tree fondly, resting one hand on a twisted branch. John came closer, touching the bark with his fingertips. The tree wasn’t as gnarled as he thought, close up. Its bark was covered instead in carvings. As John examined them, he recognized mathematical equations and chemical formulae, and he glanced up at Sherlock in amazement.

“Did you do this?” He asked, and Sherlock nodded.

“It’s my apple tree,” he said.

“How very proprietorial of you,” John remarked.

“Mycroft wanted it, and I decided it was mine,” he admitted, a faint blush staining his cheeks. “This is our family’s land, and I claimed the tree as my own. So I came down here every day for a month and carved everything I could think of into it’s bark. Mycroft was furious.” He showed John a scar on his left thumb. “This is from the first day, when I didn’t really have very good control over the knife. Bled everywhere, but I knew Mummy wouldn’t let me back if she knew I’d hurt myself, so…” he trailed off, then added almost too quietly to be heard, “I went to Mycroft.”

“You and he used to be close, didn’t you?” John asked.

“Yes.” Sherlock admitted.

“What happened?” John asked tentatively. He wondered if Sherlock would tell him or simply ignore he question as he so often did when he didn’t want to answer. John continued to examine the tree, running his fingers over the cuts, rough like Braille under his fingers as he waited for Sherlock to consider his answer, if one was to be given at all. When it came, Sherlock’s voice was quiet and matter of fact, but John knew enough of him to hear the nuance of pain behind the tone. “He went away to school. I was seven, he was thirteen. I never really forgave him, I suppose. When he came back he was different, cold. I have no idea what happened during that first year but he was never the same boy as when he left.”

John’s fingers stilled on the tree, then continued to trace the designs. He didn’t want to make too big a deal of this, even though his mind was reeling from the revelation.

“He seems different here, though.” John observed, his tone neutral.

Sherlock frowned, thinking. “He does,” he conceded.

John wondered how to characterize it. “Less uptight. More comfortable with himself, I guess.”

Sherlock hummed, a noncommittal response. His long fingers were running over the bark too now, tracing the shapes his younger self had carved into the tree.

“Perhaps Greg has something to do with it?” John offered carefully. Sherlock seemed open to talking about his brother, but John wanted to step lightly.

“It’s a possibility,” Sherlock said, though his tone was skeptical.

“You don’t think someone would act differently if they realised they had feelings for the person they were pretending to be dating?” John asked, the similarities to himself and Sherlock obvious. “You don’t think that the way they acted in private, without an audience, would begin to reflect their true feelings? That their mood would change, that they would feel, I don’t know, happier, more settled, more complete?” Sherlock looked at him speculatively, then turned back towards the willow tree, asking, “Hungry? We should see what James has packed for us.”

John took a moment, watching the tall form of Sherlock stride back towards the stream before following slowly behind.

+++

They ate in contemplative silence. The food was excellent, even Sherlock eating some of the contents of the picnic basket. When they’d eaten their fill, John glanced at Sherlock. He was sitting against the willow tree, long legs stretched out, looking over the water. John fiddled with his plate, wondering if he should bring up Mycroft again. He could see that Sherlock was thinking, but not in a mind palace kind of a way. He mused on what was going through that mind, undoubtedly at such speed John couldn’t keep up. Was Sherlock thinking about his brother and Greg, perhaps coveting the closeness they seemed to have developed? Or was he trying to decide why people would bother with such things, dismissing John’s assertions with a toss of his head? Unbidden, John’s mind presented a third option – that Sherlock was perhaps examining their own interactions, applying John’s assertion and testing to see if they held true for John and himself as well as Greg and Mycroft. Unlikely, John thought, though he was still curious.

“Penny for them,” John offered. He leaned back against his elbows, then swore softly as his shoulder twinged. He sat up, wincing as he rolled his shoulder over.

Sherlock, who had looked over when John spoke, watched without comment. Catching John’s gaze, he said quietly, “Lie down, I can help with your shoulder if you like.” John hesitated, holding Sherlock’s gaze as he raised his hands to his shirt buttons. He slipped the first few out of their buttonhole, then tugged his shirt up and over his head. Their gaze finally broke when John lay down on his stomach, turning his head away from Sherlock. He closed his eyes as Sherlock’s hands touched the warm skin of his back. Sherlock had oiled his hands with something, and they slid smoothly over the muscles of John’s shoulder. As he worked, John felt himself relax. Sherlock’s hands were strong, and the long fingers kneaded John’s sore muscles, loosening the tightness. They slid smoothly over both shoulders, down towards his ribs and around, back to trace the shape of his spine. John had to regulate his breathing, the sensation threatening to drag a deep moan from his throat. He felt his heart thudding in his chest, and hoped Sherlock could not feel it through his chest cavity.

“I suspect that you have more experience with relationships than I, John,” Sherlock said in a low voice, breaking the increasingly heavy atmosphere that had descended as he had begun his massage. John did not answer, and Sherlock went on. “Your comments earlier were not entirely with respect to Mycroft and Greg.” He spoke with calm certainty. John’s heart, already pounding, gave an extra leap as his third option appeared to be proven correct. “You were speaking also of us.” His hands slowed until they stopped, resting on John’s skin. The spot on which they rested became warmer, his heat bleeding into John’s body. “On reflection, I believe I am happier, more settled and more complete since we began preparing for this weekend.” John’s breath caught in his throat at the admission. What was Sherlock saying? Was he simply acknowledging a truth, or asking for more, admitting he wanted more from John? Needing to see his face, John rolled over. Sherlock’s face was a study in concentration, but John could see the control masking uncertainty, despite the assurance in his voice when he was speaking his deductions. Sherlock’s hands never left him, trailing over his ribs as he turned, finally coming to rest on his chest. The warmth from Sherlock’s hand was directly above John’s thudding heart, and without thinking, he pressed his own hand over it, drawing Sherlock’s attention to the rapid pattern of that racing muscle. Sherlock’s eyes widened, his eyes meeting John’s, wide and disbelieving at the evidence of John’s reaction to his declaration.

“John?” He whispered, and long experience told John that he was really asking, ‘Help me, I don’t understand’.

John smiled at him, fingers still pressing Sherlock’s palm into his chest. “I’m happier, too.” he said. “So much happier.”

Sherlock nodded and relaxed a little, though John’s eyes caught the flash of confusion and the slight tenseness of his eyes that meant, ‘I’m still not completely sure what’s going on’.

John added to his previous statement. “I’ve wanted to be with you like this” he carefully intertwined their fingers, resting on his chest, “for a while.” He framed his next statement carefully, intensely conscious of not imposing his expectations on Sherlock, of frightening him off. “Do you think it’s something you’d be interested in us exploring together?” Despite his light tone, John knew his pounding heart and probably a load of other physiological changes would tell Sherlock how nervous he was as Sherlock considered the idea. This was the moment he had dreamed about, had fantasized about. Sherlock was above him, their hands joined over his pounding heart, and John had basically told him he wanted to make the shift from platonic to romantic. The moment stretched on, Sherlock’s intensely blue eyes wide, lashed blinking slowly as his mind no doubt raced through a thousand possibilities.

As John held his breath, Sherlock exhaled. Those eyes, which had remained open but drifted away, came back into focus, locking into John’s like they were made to do so. His fingers tightened around John’s and he smiled an uncertain smile. “I think I do, John.” He looked terrified, John thought, a far cry from the confidence of their acting this week. But this wasn’t acting, this was real. Sentiment was not really his area, and John instinctively knew that it was that, rather than the physical intimacy, that was giving Sherlock pause. John allowed his hand to rest on Sherlock’s face, sending his reassurance and comfort through his touch.

“What are you thinking about?” Sherlock asked, still sitting above John. John grinned at him, then pulled himself into a sitting position.

“Two things,” he told Sherlock. “One, that this is for real, and I’m pretty sure it scares the crap out of you, which is fine, because it does me, too.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, his breath hitched, and John grinned at him, squeezing his fingers in support. Sherlock squeezed back, his fingers tight on John’s. “Two?” Sherlock swallowed hard and asked.

“What the hell did you use for massage oil?” John rubbed one hand over his torso and sniffed at the slickness on his hand. Sherlock blushed hard this time, and he wordlessly handed over the oil and vinegar salad dressing. He’d drained out the vinegar and used the oil, John could see. He must have looked appalled, because Sherlock started chuckling, then laughing, and before John knew it, he and Sherlock were laughing uncontrollably in their secluded hideaway. Hands clasped, heads leaning together in familiarity, but with a new edge to their touches, an electric effervescence in their clinch. Their laughter was fueled as much by their relief and excitement at the change in their dynamic as by Sherlock’s creative use of the salad dressing.


	12. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Between arriving back at the house and dinner, some interesting conversations take place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tuxedos, fellas? *wiggles eyebrows seductively.  
> I couldn't miss an opportunity to put everyone in formalwear. Just the idea of our boys in tuxes makes me happy!

John and Sherlock made it back to the house just as the sun was setting. Their entwined fingers appeared no different than when they left, but the hours in between seemed to be some of the most significant in John’s life. Everything had changed. He and Sherlock would still be taking things carefully as they navigated their new relationship, but that was fine with John. It had been so long since he had realised he wanted to be with Sherlock that John felt a little off kilter at the change, like the world had started spinning faster without him. The surreal feeling would continue for a while, he suspected, and he squeezed Sherlock’s fingers, just to check he was still there. Sherlock squeezed back, then shot a look at John, a new one that he deciphered as being a special secret smile just for him, full of wonder and a little nervousness. It bloomed warm inside John, and he returned the smile.

They came in through the patio, dropping their picnic things in the kitchen on their way through.

“Well I definitely need a shower,” John remarked as they mounted the stairs to Sherlock’s room. His shirt was sticking to the oil on his back, and he smelled funny.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “You do smell a little like lemons and vinegar,” he noted, amusement in his voice.

“What’s the plan for tonight?” John asked as he started getting things together for a shower. “We didn’t see Greg and Mycroft, do you think they’ll be back in time for dinner?”

“They will be.” Sherlock said confidently. “Tonight is Mummy’s actual birthday celebration. Dinner at 7 sharp, parlour games at 9, cake at 11. Same every year.”

“Right.” John said, looking at his watch, thinking, ‘Parlour games?’. “I’d better shave, then, and shower.” He hesitated for a moment, before walking over to Sherlock, who had thrown himself backwards on the bed. John smoothed back those curls – _those curls!_ – and kissed Sherlock on the forehead before smiling affectionately down at the surprised look on his face. Oh, this was going to be incredible, John thought as he closed the bathroom door behind him. He deliberately blocked the small voice that asked if he was going to tell Sherlock about the plan. He didn’t need to think about that. Not tonight.

+++

An hour later, John made his way downstairs, fiddling self-consciously with his bowtie. He personally felt that no occasion on earth warranted black tie, but this was Mummy’s birthday, and he was hardly in a position to argue. He hesitated at the bottom of the stairs, then spied Greg, looking equally uncomfortable in his own tuxedo.

“Looking good.” John greeted him.

Greg grimaced. “Why are we doing this, again?” He grumbled, tugging at his tie.

“For a shag?” John joked quietly, and Greg’s grimace immediately disappeared, replaced by a grin. A silly, smug kind of grin, John noticed. He glanced around, checking for Holmes’ of any variety, before pulling Greg into the empty sitting room.

“You look like a man who’s already checked that off his list, mate.” John observed. His earlier envy had been erased in the light of the admittedly tentative advancements in his own relationship.

Greg grinned and nodded. “Well, not quite, but there was a definite snog and some decent frottage.” He admitted, a faint blush colouring his cheeks.

John’s smile was wide and genuine. “So, that’s it, or…” he made a ‘gimme, gimme’ motion with his hand, and Greg rolled his eyes good naturedly.

“No, we talked too, and we’re going to make a go of it, however that will work when we get back to London.” Greg told John. After John had congratulated him, Greg added a little hesitantly, “Look, John, I didn’t tell Mycroft about the whole plan, I figure most of that’s your story to tell, not mine. But I did tell him that I wanted him to ask me to come this weekend. He was fine with being manipulated, unsurprisingly enough.” John chuckled a little, though he was worried about where Greg was going with this. Sure enough…

“I really want this to work out, John,” Greg said earnestly and a little uncomfortably. “I need to be honest with Mycroft. Not tonight, if you don’t want, but I don’t want him finding out more about our conversation that night at the bar and feeling like I withheld information from him. It’s not a great starter, you know?”

John nodded, knowing Greg was right.

“What about you, what happened today? G-rated version, mind you.” Greg joked a little to cover the anxiety he clearly felt for John. John’s own face transformed from worried to self-consciously happy, and Greg’s shoulders visibly relaxed in their well-cut tuxedo.

“Same, we’re going to see how we go…together.” John admitted, the obvious pleasure Greg took in his news reigniting his own happiness. “Sherlock has zero relationship experience so who knows, but he wants to give it a go. That was the point of this weekend, right?” John’s jocularity covered his own concerns about the rest of the weekend.

“So, do you think we could talk to them tomorrow, then?” Greg asked, bringing the conversation back around to the question of revealing their plan.

John nodded reluctantly. “Has to happen, I suppose.” Greg had a point. “Besides, they’re stuck here so they’ll have to have the conversation, no escaping with Anthea or to the morgue. Who knows, we could even see if Mummy might make her case for it. She seems pretty together and-“

“Formidable?” Greg offered, and John laughed.

“Exactly.” He replied. Despite his trepidation at the conversation he would have to have tomorrow, John felt good. He and Greg both had achieved their initial aim, and the evening stretched out in front of them, full of promise and the inevitable humour of seeing the Holmes boys wrangled by their mother.

“I hope they can keep from killing each other tonight.” John murmured.

Greg frowned, then said, “Mycroft’s been making an effort, did you hear the fishing conversation?” John nodded, and Greg explained apologetically what he had outlined to Mycroft. John considered for a moment.

“Thanks.” He said quietly.

Greg was relieved. “I’m glad you’re not pissed. I figured you’d have a better chance if Sherlock wasn’t fuming about Mycroft.”

“Did I hear my name?” Mycroft’s voice floated down from the stairs, so John and Greg looked at each other with a grin, then moved into the hall to see their Holmes’ descending the stairs. Both John and Greg had straightened their posture, showing off their tuxes to best advantage, and the shocked looks on both Sherlock and Mycroft made their penguin suits worthwhile.

 

_Meanwhile, off the sitting room…_

“I told you, Timothy!” Mummy would have crowed, had they not been effectively hiding as they eavesdropped on John and Greg’s conversation.

“Told me what, Wanda?” Timothy replied mildly. “Most of that made no sense at all.”

Mummy’s hand patted Father’s cheek affectionately. “Oh Timothy, as usual you see but do not observe.”

He looked at her with a pleasant but confused expression, knowing she was itching to explain.

The look she shot him encompassed exasperation, affection and the knowledge that comes from forty years of marriage. “As I said yesterday, John and Greg are in love with our sons! They came here with a plan, and it seems it has come to fruition on their picnics today. So glad I suggested that.” She preened a little. Timothy thought it prudent not to ask how much of it was actually her own idea. He listened as she continued.

“Now, Greg has told Mycroft about part of the plan, but Sherlock knows nothing. Greg and John have agreed to tell our sons the full plan tomorrow, presumably so they can have a lovely evening tonight and not spoil my birthday. Lovely boys. A little self-serving, true, but who can blame them, our boys are adorable! It will be interesting to see how they have all changed since last night.” She sighed romantically. “Such a wonderful birthday already! And a whole evening together, still, and then I can make our boys see right if they don’t like hearing about John and Greg’s plan. Perfect!”

Timothy was listening with the slightly blank look that meant he was listening but not really understanding.

She smiled again. “Let’s go and begin the evening, shall we?” She asked, and Timothy nodded amenably.

+++

“John, you look…exceptional.” Sherlock greeted him, eyes sweeping John from top to toe. The well cut tuxedo emphasised the breadth of his shoulders and John could see Sherlock cataloguing each part of him. He grinned up at Sherlock, having taking in his fill while the tall detective made his way down the stairs. Sherlock in a tuxedo was, of course, stunning, but John was more prepared, given that he knew it was coming. John reached up again to Sherlock’s hair, recognising that he’d been doing it often but unable to resist now that he knew he could. The look of tolerance on Sherlock’s face told John that he knew exactly what was running through his mind.

“Mummy contacted Greg and I and…suggested?” he looked at Greg, who nodded in approval at his choice of words, “we visit her personal tailor for a fitting. And so here we are. I gather we meet your standards?” He and Greg grinned at Sherlock and Mycroft respectively, both of whom looked astonished and impressed and just a little predatory. Twin shivers ran up John and Greg’s spines at the respective sights.

“Gregory, this is a pleasant surprise.” Mycroft murmured in Greg’s ear, having moved close so his words would not carry. His hand had run down the outside of Greg’s arms, raising goose bumps as they went. Greg knew he looked good in his tuxedo, but Mycroft’s gaze as he came down the last of the stairs made it even more evident that this suit was worth every penny. Mycroft’s tuxedo was a step up from even his usual attire, and he wore it with the ease of a man accustomed to bespoke, formal dress. Greg’s fingers itched to explore, but they still had the evening to get through first. Though they still stood close together, Greg and Mycroft turned to John and Sherlock, forming a conversational group rather than two discrete couples.

“I trust you found the apple tree in good health, Sherlock?” Mycroft stunned both John and his brother by asking courteously.

Sherlock nodded hesitantly. An awkward silence fell.

“And the folly still stands, I take it?” Sherlock asked finally, in return.

Mycroft inclined his head. “As always. Mummy will be pleased that Grandfather’s legacy remains intact.” Sherlock smiled a polite smile before returning his attention to John. Mycroft turned to his partner too, who kissed him briefly, a proud smile gracing his lips.

The four of them stood in the entryway, couples admiring each other, until Mummy and Father came in from the rear of the house a few moments later.

“Happy birthday, Mummy.” Mycroft offered, kissing her cheek. John looked to Sherlock, bracing for the usual scowl as his brother got in first, however he seemed content to wait. John squeezed his hand, interlaced as it so often was, now, and received an answering burst of pressure. Once Mycroft had stepped back, Sherlock replaced him, offering the same salutation to Mummy, followed by Greg and John. It felt just slightly like greeting the Queen, John thought, all of them standing around in tuxedos, she in a deep pink, floor length gown. Once all the greetings were over, Mummy preceded them into the dining room, where a staff awaited their arrival, seating each of them at the ornate dining table. John raised his eyebrows to Sherlock, who was seated opposite him, and he shrugged. This was part of it, John gathered, and he made an expression of acceptance to Sherlock, who maintained a completely straight face apart from one eye’s slow wink. John’s heart beat a little faster. He turned his attention to Mummy, who was asking after their afternoon. All four men made gestures of discomfort, then each pair of eyes met their counterpart, warmth and affection flowing across the table.

“Perhaps another topic would be more suitable.” Father murmured in a rare show of mediation, and all four younger men broke into chuckles at that. Tension broken, the entrée was served and the conversation began to flow.


	13. A Refined Country Evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You are cordially invited to bear witness to an evening of merriment with the Holmes' and their increasingly significant others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter seemed to run quite long, but I couldn't pass up the chance to explore the boy's past a little more, and give them a chance to banter like I imagine they would if the animosity didn't take over their relationship. Plus Mummy, of course, is a card!

Dinner, of course, had been exquisite, the conversation light and amusing, both Holmes brothers bringing their considerable charms and diplomacy to the fore. All six diners had partaken in the proffered wine, resulting in a relaxed, if slightly tipsy, party that rose from the table at nine o’clock. Sherlock and Mycroft had been cordial, even pleasant to each other, and John and Greg had exchanged a number of ‘can you believe it?’ looks across the table. Sherlock had offered his dessert to Mycroft, who had declined with a raised eyebrow and a slight shake of his head. Mummy was flushed with the wine, food, and the pleasure of seeing her sons so contented as she led them out of the dining room for their parlour games.

As they exited the dining room, Sherlock grabbed John’s hand, pulling him left around the corner into an alcove. The others turned right, and Sherlock’s hand covered the protestation that rose to John’s lips. He pressed them into the alcove, John’s back to the wall, the length of Sherlock’s tuxedo pressing into John.

“Sherlock, what…” John managed breathily as Sherlock turned to check that their absence was not immediately noticed.

“Shhhh…” Sherlock whispered, his attention turning back to John, his eyes and hands roving over the new and unfamiliar tuxedo. His gaze rose to John’s, asking, and John smiled in approval. Sherlock sighed and buried his face in John’s neck, breathing in the scent of the new fabric, and John’s cologne, and the faint smell of the wine on John’s breath, now exhaling into the enclosed space. John’s fingers wove into Sherlock’s hair, pulling him close as a groan made its way past his lips, scattering the curls pressed to his mouth. The wine, an unusual indulgence for Sherlock, was clearly lessening his inhibitions, and John was pleased that he had been given a glimpse of Sherlock like this, freer and more at ease than he’d ever seen him. With a sigh, Sherlock pulled back, ghosting his lips over John’s mouth as he went. He smiled at John, then said quietly, “We’ll be missed.” John nodded, his hands on Sherlock’s chest, trying to stay their racing hearts.

After a moment, they made their way hand in hand into the sitting room. Father was pouring brandy, Mummy fussing with some cards. Mycroft and Greg were standing by fireplace, heads together, more intimate than John had seen them. Mycroft’s face was open, affectionate, as he looked at Greg, and John felt a pulse of pleasure for his friend. He had clearly found what he was looking for, and from the joy on his face, Greg realised it too. John glanced at Sherlock, and he could see Sherlock was staring at Mycroft with an expression he had never seen. He looked wistful, John thought.

“Sherlock?” John asked softly, and the taller man shook himself out and looked down at John, his expression smoothing. He smiled at John, and they moved over to Sherlock’s parents, accepting drinks and smiling at Mummy.

“Some parlour games?” John asked brightly. “I haven’t ever spent an evening like this, I must admit.” Mycroft and Greg brought themselves over to join the conversation, Greg nodding in agreement at John’s statement.

“We do this every year, it’s a tradition.” Mycroft offered.

“We used to do it more often, as children, but Mycroft cheated a lot so we had to stop.” Sherlock explained, with a twinkle in his eye and no malice in his tone.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, accepting the verbal lobby, countering with, “I had no choice, Sherlock refused to follow the rules.”

“What games?” Greg asked, throwing John a ‘this is going to be interesting’ look. John nodded, a slight smile playing over his face.

“Let’s see,” Mummy said brightly, cutting into the conversation. “There was the Memory game, but both boys have eidetic memories, so it wasn’t much of a contest.”

“I was more precise.” Sherlock told John.

Mycroft countered with a comment to Greg, “True, of course, but I was faster, which is the point of the game.”

“Murder in the Dark,” Mummy went on, looking fondly at both her boys, “but again, they are both so observant that it became too easy.”

“Mummy taught us about observation and deduction.” Mycroft explained to Greg, Sherlock nodding in agreement. That explained a lot, John thought.

Mummy continued, “And it was the same for everything we tried, they were excellent teaching exercises, but both Mycroft and Sherlock were too clever for them to be a challenge for long. Animal, Vegetable, Mineral was their favourite, and the Thimble Game, though they could deduce its location without even looking.” Both Sherlock and Mycroft had identical smug expressions on their faces at this, sharing the memory, and John and Greg stifled smiles. The competitive nature that had driven the Holmes’ for so long was being rewritten, slowly, but it had started. An affection tone was replacing the resentment, piece by piece.

“Of course, the problem with 20 questions,” Mummy went on, ignoring the pointed glances that were flying amongst the younger men, “was that neither Mycroft nor Sherlock knew any of the people we did, and we had no idea about the people they chose – famous scientists, or politicians, I never knew.” Mummy chuckled at the memory, her eyes flying as her mouth moved, shrewdly observing the glances, the new truth of the connections between her sons and their partners. She smiled, and they smiled back at her, unaware of her deductions.

“So, charades.” Father said in the brief silence, and Mummy beamed at him.

“Charades.” She confirmed, waving her cards. She passed them out, offering them to John and Greg first, then Mycroft and Sherlock, before she and Father took the last two cards.

“One round will probably we all we time for, now that we’ve been talking.” Mummy said. “Greg and Mycroft, John and Sherlock, Father and I.” She pointed out the teams and everyone nodded.

“Fastest teams win,” Mummy was in brisk, explain the rules mode, and John lost track a little as he watched Mycroft and Sherlock, listening attentively and nodding as Mummy outlined the house rules like the obedient little boys he knew they had not been.

“Greg, why don’t you go first.” Mummy instructed, sitting on a settee. The others took seats around her, expectantly facing a suddenly nervous Greg. He glanced at his card again before slipping it in his pocket.

“Go!” Mummy called, Father consulting his wristwatch to time Greg’s effort.

Greg threw himself into his effort despite his clear self-consciousness. Mycroft was sitting on the edge of his seat, leaning forward, intent on Greg’s every movement. The others were interested, too, Sherlock in particular determined to figure it out before his brother. Greg appeared to be performing some kind of martial arts, John thought, and all the Bruce Lee movies he knew ran through his head, but he drew a blank. Then Greg appeared to be a bear, or some kind of large animal; Mycroft has no idea, John thought, but from the look on Mummy’s face, she was having a wonderful time. John could feel Sherlock fiddling next to him, and he wanted to elbow him, tell him to sit still so Mycroft could concentrate. Greg’s face was contorting, looking more stressed as the time passed. Suddenly Mycroft sat up, a satisfied smile on his face.

“I believe it is ‘Kung Fu Panda’.” He said confidently, a sentence John never thought he would hear from Mycroft Holmes. Greg smiled in relief, and Mycroft looked smug, accepting Greg’s congratulatory kiss. John had no idea how Mycroft had done it – surely he wasn’t familiar with Kung Fu Panda? As he wondered, he saw Mycroft shoot a quick glance at Sherlock, and the gratitude in his look made a suspicion bloom in John’s mind, then grow to certainty.

He leaned over to Sherlock, and said quietly, “That was nice of you.”

Sherlock looked sideways at John, then nodded in acknowledgement. He couldn’t believe Sherlock had told Mycroft the answer. This warranted further conversation, but now was not the time, because it was John’s turn to play. He glanced at the card in his hand again, grinned, and stood.

Father caught his eye then nodded, signalling the start of John’s time. He looked at Sherlock, who had his full attention on John. John made several swift hand gestures, and Sherlock started nodding as he understood, urging John to move on. With a twinkle in his eyes, John grabbed Sherlock, pulling him up to help his charade. Sherlock stood, waiting for instruction. John was giggling as he faced Sherlock, miming a crown, before slipping an imaginary ring on his finger, then taking an imaginary veil and raising it over Sherlock’s head. The others are laughing too, now, and John had no idea if they actually knew the answer or were just laughing at the slightly affronted expression on Sherlock’s face as he bore the indignity of John’s charades.

“Clearly, it’s the Princess Bride.” Sherlock said, gentle exasperation in his voice. John’s giggles morphed into laughter and he nodded and clapped at the same time, then fell against Sherlock as his laughter overtook him.

“Careful, you’ll tear my veil.” Sherlock said drolly, and John burst into fresh peals of laughter. Mummy wiped tears from her eyes at the scene, and even Greg and Mycroft were grinning, though Mycroft was shaking his head with mild disapproval.

Finally, they wrangled control of themselves, and Mummy said, “You’re all having so much fun, why doesn’t Mycroft go next?” Mycroft’s face immediately flushed, and he stood, nervously straightening his jacket.

As Father said, “Go!” he shot an agonized look at Greg, his face still flaming, then began a stilted mime. Greg was rolling his hands over, the universal gesture for, ‘come on, come on!’, encouraging Mycroft to continue. Sighing, Mycroft closed his eyes, then pretended to greet someone, then another person, and another. He bent down to pet a small animal, admired his shoes and skipped around the small space. By this time, Sherlock and John were almost rolling off the couch with their laughter, John trying one handed to apologise. Greg was trying hard to hold back his broad grin, and finally Mycroft stopped, standing stiffly in the middle of the room.

“Gregory?” He asked formally.

Greg managed to pull himself together enough to gasp, “The Wizard of Oz?”

Mycroft nodded in relief, his shoulders sagging, and he sat next to Greg, who immediately started trying to sooth his battered ego. When they had finally recovered from their second bout of laughter, Sherlock stood, winking at John as he did.

“Sherlock, John needs to answer this in less than sixty three seconds for your team to win.” Father announced, his voice still amused from his earlier chuckles at Mycroft. Sherlock nodded, confident all over, and John thought he had never looked more attractive. The evening was much more fun than he would have thought it could be, but there was still a part of his brain wondering what would happen after cake at 11…Mentally shaking himself, John forced himself to concentrate. This was not the time for that kind of wondering. He focussed on Sherlock, his knowledge of how Sherlock’s mind worked hopefully an advantage.

“Go!” Father said, and Sherlock stood still, not moving a muscle. John frowned, waiting. Sherlock had a smug look in his eye, and John knew all of a sudden that this was part of a plan.

“Don’t be a prat, Sherlock, just do it!” John chided him, and Sherlock shot him an irritated look. Sherlock glanced at Greg and Mycroft, then rolled his eyes and made a simple hand gesture towards John, before falling over dramatically. John’s face lit up and he cried, “Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone!” Sherlock grinned at him, smug as always, and John stood to press his lips to Sherlock’s in elation, a thrill passing through him at the touch. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John for a moment, before breaking off the kiss and looking self-consciously at his family.

“Cake time!” Mummy announced as they all clapped, and John was surprised to see that it was in fact eleven o’clock. The evening had flown, and they hadn’t even played much charades. He and Sherlock had won, and he expected Sherlock to be smug and impossible, but he just smiled as they joined Mycroft and Greg.

“I suppose John has made you read Harry Potter?” Mycroft asked, the four men standing together, waiting to take their signal again from Mummy.

Sherlock shrugged. “I’ve never read it. But John-oof!” He stopped abruptly as John’s elbow dug into his ribs. John smiled sweetly at him, and Sherlock glared before defiantly finishing his sentence.

“John practices his wand motions and sometimes acts out the scenes-oww!” John’s elbow had found another sensitive spot, leaving Sherlock squirming uncomfortably.

“Sorry,” John said insincerely. “I’m not sure anybody needed to know that, actually.”

Greg and Mycroft were smirking, standing close enough for their arms to brush as they sipped the last of their brandy, and John’s face was hot with embarrassment; Sherlock was rubbing his sore ribs and glaring half-heartedly at John. There was no way on earth John could ever have imagined this scenario ten days ago, or even right before they had arrived. Incredible, he thought. And after cake…well.


	14. Saturday Night: John and Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I would like to make you feel happy and safe and loved."
> 
> That's pretty much what's going on.

John was relieved that the tradition of cake so late in the evening did not include a nightcap. Between the wine at dinner and the brandy after, he was pleasantly buzzed, but another drink would definitely set him up for a hangover the next morning. It was not yet midnight when he and Sherlock closed the door to his bedroom. Sherlock stood with his back to the door, eyes closed, then sighed deeply, opening his eyes and looking straight at John. For his part, John was standing in the bathroom door, having filled two glasses with water. No point tempting fate with the hangovers, he reasoned. Wordlessly, John crossed the room, handing one of the glasses to Sherlock. One long finger reached to trace the lip of the glass, an action John found incredibly arousing for some reason.

“I’m not sure what you expect from me, John.” Sherlock admitted quietly, as they both watched his finger slowly move across the glass.

John frowned a little. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Sherlock looked up and cocked one eyebrow at him.

John’s frown cleared as his brain supplied the answer. “You mean right now?”

Sherlock nodded.

John started to shrug, then stopped and fully considered his answer. This was important, he could tell, mainly because Sherlock had started a sentence with the words, ‘I’m not sure,” a rare occurrence indeed. He must be particularly uncertain to admit such a thing, and John realised how much power Sherlock felt he was giving John by making such an admission.

John chose his words carefully. “I would like very much to wake up tomorrow with you.” He said, avoiding specifics.

Sherlock frowned. ‘What does that mean?’ was clear in his expression.

John exhaled. This was going to be different to every relationship he’d ever had, starting with the words, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”, really.

“I would like to make you feel happy and safe and loved.” John found himself saying. Not all of that was planned, his brain pointed out to his mouth, but at least it was true.

Sherlock cleared his throat uncomfortably.

John continued, taking Sherlock’s unspoken cue, “Look, I don’t know at this point. What I just said is the truth, and I don’t really care how it happens. We can lie down and go to sleep together, or we can shag like rabbits in every position in the karma sutra, I don’t really care as long as it’s what you’re comfortable with.”

“There are no rabbits in the karma sutra, John.” Sherlock’s response was automatic, and it made John grin.

“I know. Mixed phrasing. My point is, I know what I want to do physically, but I only want that if you want it too.” John struggled to express himself clearly, his mind fuddled by the late hour, the alcohol in his system and his proximity to Sherlock. “I don’t have any expectations. This is new to me, too. I want to make you happy, Sherlock, in a way that makes me happy too. If you don’t know what that entails yet, that’s fine, neither do I. If you want me to stop doing something, I’ll stop.” He hesitated, then took Sherlock’s now empty glass and placed it along with his own on the chest of drawers. “So what do you want, Sherlock?” John asked quietly, resisting the urge to put his hands on Sherlock. As much as he wanted to explore Sherlock, and he was pretty sure Sherlock wanted the same, rushing things would only push Sherlock away. He stood still, waiting while Sherlock processed his words. His heart was thudding in his chest, though his mind was calm. It really didn’t matter, he realised, what Sherlock decided; as long as they could be together, he would be happy. It was funny that the intimacy he craved was the thing of which Sherlock was most wary. John just hoped Sherlock could bring himself to take the first step.

“I don’t know, John.” Sherlock’s voice was low, the words hanging in the air between them. His long pale hands moved hesitantly, reaching out then pausing. John didn’t move, only his tongue flicking out to lick his lips nervously. Sherlock watched the movement, swallowing audibly at the action. “I want to continue as we have been here. To move forward.” He swallowed again, John fascinated to see his Adams’ apple bob at the action, then startled to feel Sherlock’s hands settle lightly on his shoulders.

John nodded slowly. “Let’s see how we go, then, shall we?” He raised his own hands to settle on Sherlock’s hips, then leaned in, finally pressing his mouth to Sherlock’s as he’d been aching to do since they entered the room. Sherlock exhaled sharply through his nose, melting into John, sliding his arms over to pull John in closer, fitting him against his long body. John groaned, unable to stop the deep sound from his throat. The feel of his body and Sherlock’s pressed against each other was electric, and it took all his control not to rut against him like a teenager. John kept his kisses light until Sherlock’s tongue licked against his lips, its roughness thrilling against the softness of John’s lips. John parted his own lips, his tongue reaching out to meet Sherlock’s. As they stroked against each other, Sherlock moaned, the sound electric to John. He knew he was hard, feeling his cock twitching as his tongue and Sherlock’s danced. He was conscious of not rubbing against Sherlock to overtly, though he longed for friction to take the edge off. Hours later, it seemed, Sherlock broke away, drawing his head up and away from John’s, both panting at the exertion. John looked at Sherlock, his kiss-plump lips, hooded eyes, flushed cheeks, and a rush of blood to his groin made him feel light headed.

“This isn’t black tie anymore, is it.” Sherlock stated breathily, and John grinned up at him.

“Nope.” He replied, popping the ‘p’ as Sherlock so often did. Sherlock tugged at his bowtie, pulling its length loose from his collar and dropping it pointedly on the floor. John watched the process in slow motion, and would have sworn that he had never seen anything so arousing in all his life. As John shed his jacket, Sherlock started on his own buttons, and within minutes they stood in their pants, expensive tuxedos tumbled carelessly on the floor. Seeing the long pale length of Sherlock made John’s mouth dry, and he looked up into those incredible eyes, waiting again for Sherlock to guide their pace.

“I, um, I don’t have a lot of experience doing this.” Sherlock admitted, his fingers trailing like whispers over John’s chest. Despite the distraction, John fought to concentrate on Sherlock’s voice. God, no, not his voice. His _meaning_. Definitely the _meaning_.

“Do you want to stop?” John asked. Sherlock bit his lip, drawing the plumpness between his teeth, and John had to hold back a whimper. As he watched, Sherlock shook his head, a tiny motion, but definite. John hesitated.

“Do you want me to…take the lead?” John asked, casting around for the true reason behind Sherlock’s admission. Sherlock was silent, so John tried again.

“Is there something in particular you want to do? Or don’t want to do?” John was running out of ideas. “Would you rather we talked first about what we’re going to do so it’s not unexpected?” John asked finally. He didn’t have any other ideas, so he just waited. Sherlock’s brain worked at its own speed, usually lightning fast but John was patient, even now.

After a few minutes, Sherlock spoke, his voice deep and rich, eyes still watching his hand as the fingers trailed up and down over John’s chest. “I want you to show me what you like, John.” John froze for a moment, then swallowed hard.

“Do you want to know…” he started, but Sherlock slid his hands around John’s ribs, pulling him in close.

“Don’t talk, just do.” Sherlock muttered in John’s ear.

“For a sub you’re astoundingly bossy, Sherlock.” John grumbled good naturedly, and Sherlock blinked at him, clearly waiting for John to act.

“Alright, then.” John thought to himself, pushing back out of Sherlock’s arms and looking him up and down. It was evident that Sherlock was as aroused as he was, a matching bulge in his pants mute evidence thereof. John took a moment to think – what did he want Sherlock to experience? – then leaned forward, gently kissing his mouth. One hand snuck out and took Sherlock’s, then he tugged them both over towards the bed. Sitting Sherlock down, John ran his hands into Sherlock’s hair and tugged a little. Those eyes that fascinated John so much drifted closed, so he tugged again, the stifled groan from the back of Sherlock’s throat making John’s cock twitch. He pushed gently on Sherlock’s shoulders, easing him back on the bed. Sherlock’s eyes were still closed, and John allowed his fingers to wind down that long pale torso, coming to rest on the trail of dark hair that ended so abruptly at the waistband of Sherlock’s pants.  Sherlock’s abs were tight, bunched under John’s slow touch. Splaying his hands wide, around Sherlock’s hips, John knelt at the edge of the bed, his chest rubbing against the hardness inside Sherlock’s pants. A loud groan sprang from Sherlock at the contact, and his hips lifted off the bed. John’s hands pressed against the sharp hipbones. His lips parted to allow the tip of his tongue to taste that tempting line of hair. The warm skin was slightly salty, and John could feel the muscles trembling under his touch. He swirled his tongue in Sherlock’s belly button before heading lower, dipping under the waistband. At this point John’s chin was rubbing along the bulge in Sherlock’s pants. He could feel Sherlock moving his hips, seeking the friction. Whimpers of frustration made their way past his lips, and John grinned to himself.

Hooking the tips of his fingers under the waistband of Sherlock’s pants, John tugged, licking at the skin as it was exposed to the air. The cotton slid down Sherlock’s legs and to the ground. John mouthed along the crease of Sherlock’s hip, one hand still against Sherlock’s abdomen as the muscles tensed. He hesitated for a moment, taking stock of his own arousal. John had the enviable capability of concentrating on his partner and ignoring his own needs, at least for a while, but this was a whole new experience. The taste and sound and feel of Sherlock was beyond anything he’d experienced, and it was taxing him to the limit to stop himself either rutting against Sherlock’s leg or dropping one hand to his own cock at the expense of Sherlock.

One steady hand reached out and took hold of Sherlock’s cock, and one long, loud groan sounded from Sherlock. John’s hand slid up, his palm scrubbing gently across the head of it, slicking the pre-come around before gliding down again. Sherlock’s hips were endeavoring to move, though the hand on his abdomen helped still him.  John allowed his hand to slip lower, fingertips caressing Sherlock’s balls as his mouth settled wetly over the head of Sherlock’s cock. The bucking was harder to subdue this time, and John went with it, shifting his weight, keeping the heat of his mouth on Sherlock’s cock as he settled into the sensation. Slowly, John started his mouth moving over Sherlock, slipping up, tongue winding around the head, then down again. The salty taste wasn’t unpleasant, and coupled with the scent of sweat and Sherlock, John thought he might actually come without a touch. As Sherlock’s panting increased, John knew he was getting close, could feel it in the tightening of his muscles, the clenching of his fists, the tiny, uncontrolled thrusts into John’s mouth. He increased his tempo, bringing his hand down to pump at the base of Sherlock’s cock. Between his tongue swirling around the head of his cock, John’s hand at the base and another on his balls, Sherlock lasted only a moment before coming hard, his voice hoarse and desperate as he pumped hot come into John’s mouth. John swallowed, and again, his left hand rubbing soothingly up Sherlock’s torso. He kissed tenderly at Sherlock’s cock until it softened, then rose and lay on the bed next to Sherlock, stroking long passes along Sherlock’s side as he came down from his climax. His own erection was almost painful now, and he indulged with a couple of strokes, groaning at the relief brought by the friction. His right hand had sneaked up, pinching as a nipple, a thrill coursing through him from that point.

Sherlock turned at the sound, his eyes meeting John’s. “Show me.” Sherlock whispered, turning on his side, eyes burning into John’s.

John pushed his pants off and rolled onto his back, knees in the air as his left hand worked over his cock. His breath was fast, stuttering, and Sherlock’s roving eyes raised his arousal almost to breaking point. His fist flew, body arched, a steady stream of guttural moans coming from his mouth. Just as he felt his orgasm build closer, Sherlock’s mouth landed on one nipple, sucking it into his mouth and catapulting John over into a blinding orgasm. He shouted Sherlock’s name, ribbons of come painting his chest and abdomen and the side of Sherlock’s face in equal measure.


	15. Saturday Night: Mycroft and Greg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I want to tear that tuxedo off you and do some truly filthy things, Mycroft Holmes."
> 
> I think that just about sums it up, really.

As they mounted the stairs to Mycroft’s bedroom, Greg’s heart was pounding. They had been the last to leave the sitting room, dawdling over seconds of cake, the others bidding the pair goodnight before they rose and headed for the stairs. Mycroft had lead the way, until the landing, where he had turned to face Greg, his eyes alight with mischief.

“Shall we revisit?” Mycroft asked, the challenge in his low voice.

Greg shivered at his tone, then grinned, taking his turn to press the other man into the wall, this time for real. His body responded instantly to the touch.

“No chance of being caught this time.” He growled into Mycroft’s ear, biting on his earlobe before sucking it into his mouth. Mycroft groaned, canting his hips up against Greg’s body. Greg obliged his unspoken request, hands on Mycroft’s hips as he pressed his own body hard against Mycroft’s, the stiffness of his own erection finding its counterpart with unerring accuracy. Mycroft gasped, and Greg reluctantly left his ear to claim his open mouth. There was no disappointment from Mycroft, who responded with such enthusiasm Greg wondered if they would end up getting off right here, against this wall. As tempting as it might be to do it as soon as possible, he had other plans for their first evening together. With a regretful kiss, he held Mycroft’s face in his hands, waiting until the pale blue eyes opened to look at him.

“One more flight.” He breathed, mouth inches from Mycroft’s still. “I want to tear that tuxedo off you and do some truly filthy things, Mycroft Holmes.” At the deep tone and indecent words, Mycroft’s eyes went wide with desire, and Greg had to jerk his head back to avoid being kissed again. Grinning, he grabbed Mycroft’s hand and pulled him up the stairs, moving fast to the door before pulling them both through and slamming it behind them. As soon as they were inside, he pushed Mycroft’s jacket off, picking the expensive fabric up and draping it over the chair by the door. He slapped the hand that had been tugging at the bowtie, his eyes meeting Mycroft’s as he said, “I believe I said I wanted to do the tuxedo.” Mycroft gulped but lowered his now trembling hand. Greg slid his bowtie out from under his collar with a deliberate slowness, before working his way down the buttons, sliding each out of its buttonhole with a studied care. He removed the cufflinks, kissing the inside of Mycroft’s wrists, the delicate skin warm to touch. Once the buttons were all loose and the tails were pulled out of his trousers, Greg placed his hands on Mycroft’s ribs, feeling the rhythm of his breathing, before sliding his hands up, over his nipples and across his freckled shoulders. A long moan escaped Mycroft, his head dropping forwards. Mycroft’s shirt joined his jacket, and Greg grinned up at him.

“Freckles. I love freckles.” Greg murmured, kissing and licking his way in a random trail along Mycroft’s ribs to one nipple, then down to his bellybutton. Mycroft’s hands anchored in his hair, his breathing rough, and Greg felt a powerful pulse of arousal. The British Government, for want of a better descriptor, was coming slowly apart under his touch, and it was hot as hell. With a glance upwards, Greg could see that Mycroft’s head had rolled back now, leaning against the door as he breathed hard.

“Where does this lead, I wonder?” Greg asked, trailing one finger down the ginger hair that lead from his belly button. He stopped when he reached Mycroft’s trousers, sliding one finger slightly under the waistband. At a gasp from Mycroft, Greg froze, raising his head to meet the wide eyes above him. Greg raised his eyebrows, asking the silent question, and Mycroft groaned, “God, yes…”

Greg took that as approval, slipping the buttons of his trousers loose then running the zipper down, deliberately following the line of the very hard cock inside. Mycroft groaned again, Greg’s name mixed into the sound, making his own cock leap at the eroticism of it. It had been a very long time since someone had wanted Greg with such intensity and he had forgotten how arousing that fact was in itself. Glancing at his options, now, Greg decided that no matter what, he was too old to kneel on a wooden floor, blow job or not. He stood up, running one hand up to Mycroft’s neck and whispering, “Naked people tend to get blow jobs, did you know?”

Mycroft froze, then in a frantic rush of movement, divested himself of the rest of his clothes. Greg had removed his own clothes, leaving just his trousers and pants, and was sitting on the bed, waiting for Mycroft. Despite the care taken with the top of his tuxedo, Mycroft had left his trousers in a pile on the floor, a fact which made Greg grin inwardly. He must be in a hurry if he didn’t even pick up his clothes, Greg thought. Then he looked at Mycroft, and stopped thinking. Not just Mycroft, _naked_ Mycroft. Slightly self-conscious, naked, very aroused Mycroft, his brain added helpfully. He was standing uncertainly by the door, so Greg beckoned to him to come closer. As Greg was sitting, it was the most natural thing in the world for him to simply open his mouth and lick the shiny drop off the end of Mycroft’s cock when he made it over to the bed.

Mycroft gasped, his hands finding Greg’s shoulders, and he managed to say, “I’d better lie down, I think.” Greg grinned at him, shifting over and then straddling Mycroft as he lay on the bed.

“You look delicious.” Greg growled, and there was a disbelief in the look Mycroft returned to him. “Whoever told you otherwise had a McDonald’s palate.” Greg told him matter-of-factly. Mycroft giggled at that, and Greg raised his eyebrows. “I’ll have you know I’m a Michelin star man, myself,” Greg said airily, “Let me show you.” He lowered his head, then proceeded to taste every part of Mycroft he could, starting behind one ear and working down. He licked, nibbled, sucked and ran his teeth over every freckle and scar he could find, wondering what the stories were and thrilling that he would be able to find out next time perhaps. _Next time_. The idea filled him with a fierce joy, and he worked his way down, finally running his tongue agonisingly slowly up the length of Mycroft’s cock.

After a litany of breathless whispers and moans as Greg had moved across his body, Mycroft’s voice rose to a shout, “Oh, Gregory!” at the feel of Greg’s mouth around him. His fists bunched in the bedspread, but Greg ignored them, focussing on his aim of bringing Mycroft to the edge of reason and possibly back again. It had been a while since he’d given a blow job so much attention, but his considerable skill had Mycroft panting and groaning his name.

“Is this what you want?” He asked Mycroft, hoping there was a shred of thought process still in there. “We could…” But Mycroft had cut him off.

“Yes, please, please…” he groaned, and Greg slid one hand up, easing two fingers into Mycroft’s mouth. He held Mycroft’s gaze, murmuring, “I want to press these fingers into you, and fuck you with them while you come down my throat.”

Mycroft sucked wantonly, gasping and letting his saliva coat Greg’s hand. Mycroft nodded hard, and Greg gently pulled his slick fingers out, lowering his hand to press back, behind the gingery curls and against his hole. Greg dropped his head down again, letting his mouth take in Mycroft as a single finger slid into his body. Mycroft gave a strangled shout, working hard to control the instinctive bucking of his hips. Greg worked his finger into Mycroft, the tight heat making him groan around Mycroft’s cock. He kept the rhythm of his mouth, one and then two fingers matching the tempo. Greg could feel Mycroft getting closer, and he sped up, his tongue flicking out against the head as he sucked hard, fingers pressing deep.

“Gregory, oh…..I’m….I’m….” was all the warning Greg got, and he stroked the hard nub inside Mycroft as he came, rigid and full inside Greg’s mouth. His hips bucked hard, and Greg slid off, Mycroft’s subsequent streams instead hitting Greg’s face and neck. He swallowed what was in his mouth and waited out the rest of Mycroft’s climax, rubbing his thighs and watching the emotions flicker across Mycroft’s unguarded face. While Mycroft regained his senses, Greg’s hand strayed to his own erection, desperate for release after watching Mycroft come apart under his hands and mouth. As he did, however, Mycroft rolled towards him, a long slender hand stilling Greg’s.

“I have another suggestion, if you’re amenable.” Mycroft whispered in Greg’s ear. Greg raised one eyebrow, not trusting himself to either look at Mycroft not speak.

“Just a little more magic with your fingers and I can be ready to ride you, Gregory Lestrade.” Mycroft’s voice, deeper and darker than usual, sounded again in Greg’s ear.

Greg groaned loudly, gripping the base of his cock hard to stave off the orgasm that had threatened at Mycroft’s invitation. His eyes closed and he swallowed hard, nodding his head fervently.

“I’ll be back in a moment, my dear.” Mycroft said, rolling over and taking a bottle of lube and a condom out of his bag. Greg raised his eyebrows.

“You came prepared.” He commented, focussing on the fact rather than the potential activities for which they could be used.

“Of course,” Mycroft said, but under Greg’s steadily demanding gaze, he admitted, “Prepared for hope to be realised, shall we say?” His cheeks reddened.

Greg said softly, “You felt it before we left London, then.” Mycroft nodded, and Greg moved over and cupped his face, smiling as he passed a gentle kiss over his lips.

Mycroft sighed into it, leaning his forehead against Greg’s. They savoured the moment, before Mycroft broke the moment, saying, “So, shall we put this to use, then?”

Greg started, wide eyed, then nodded, the heated atmosphere from earlier returning with a rush. He and Mycroft looked at each other, then bolted for the bed, practically tripping over each other in their haste. They fell together, kissing hard. Greg was hard, still, hard and aching, and he wasted no time fumbling for the lube. Mycroft handed it over without looking, Greg squirting it across his fingers before reaching for Mycroft again. His hands slicked down the cleft of Mycroft’s arse, squeezing the large muscles before his slippery forefinger pushed inside Mycroft. The redhead moaned, hips tilting to accommodate Greg further.

“More.” Mycroft panted, breath hot on Greg’s neck. Greg added another finger, then another at Mycroft’s urging, curling his fingers, trying not to think too hard about the heat, or slick pressure on his fingers, lest he lose control before he was able to sink fully into Mycroft. Just as Greg was wondering if he would last long enough at all, Mycroft pushed at him, shifting his hips so Greg’s fingers slid out. He grabbed the condom, opening the packet and putting it in his mouth. Greg frowned, then his eyes and mouth made three perfect circles as Mycroft proceeded to put the condom on his with his mouth, taking most of Greg’s length in his mouth in one long pass.

“Jesus, Mycroft, I’m not…” he gritted his teeth, recalling as many types of criminal activity as possible to retain his control. Mycroft was smirking, then he rolled Greg onto his back and straddled his waist. Bending forward, he kissed Greg hard before lowering himself slowly onto Greg’s cock. Mycroft’s eyes were locked on Greg, while the detective was biting the inside of his cheek to avoid coming explosively and immediately. After a seemingly endless moment, Mycroft was seated, Greg’s cock filling him. They stilled for a long moment, soft moans and whispers the only sounds in the room, surrounding and nourishing their connection.

Finally, Greg murmured, “Mycroft?” and he nodded, shifting his weight, feeling Greg shift with him. Leaning forward, Mycroft braced against the headboard, rolling his hips so Greg slid slowly in and out of him.

“Ohhh…” Greg moaned, the sensation almost unbearable. Glancing down, he could see that Mycroft was hard again, the ongoing stimulation too much for his body to hold in. Greg reached down, his fist closing around Mycroft to pump the same rhythm Mycroft had set.

Mycroft gasped, a steady stream of “Gregory, oh, Gregory…” issuing from his mouth as he moved. Greg slowly increased the pace, feeling his own orgasm building. From experience it was going to be earth shattering, and there was no stopping it, not now that he was buried in Mycroft, the other man panting and moaning the same as he. Their movements became frenzied, and Greg suddenly lost the rhythm as he felt his abdomen tighten and tense, the world drawing in and then exploding into indescribable, unbearable ecstasy. Only a moment later, Mycroft grunted and came, the lesser volume still enough to paint Greg’s chest. Mycroft collapsed on Greg’s chest, breathing hard and panting, “Gregory…” on each breath. He moaned as Greg slipped out of him, sliding to lie next to Greg. The detective, for his part, barely registered Mycroft, his own world still collapsing and rebuilding in the afterglow of his climax.

“Mycroft…” he whispered, seeking blindly, and long fingers entwined with his as he drifted away on a sea of contentment.


	16. The Morning After, or, Mummy Knows Best

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mummy Holmes finally takes charge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been planning this chapter with great anticipation since I first conceived this story - I just love the idea of two men (Mycroft and Sherlock) who are so childish, yet insistent of their adulthood, and still have their mother pulling strings in their lives. I think this is where John and Greg really realise what they're getting into.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this far. Remember, comments and kudos are love! <3

Greg stirred, his cheek feeling odd as he rolled over. Frowning, eyes still closed, he raised one hand to his face. Something flaky was on his cheek, and his neck…the memories of last night came flooding back, and he realised he and Mycroft had not cleaned up before drifting off to sleep last night. That was going to be a nightmare to deal with, he thought to himself. Looking over, Greg could see that Mycroft was asleep, face turned away, snoring lightly. Greg pulled the covers up carefully so as not to wake him. Sneaking out of bed, he went in search of a long hot shower, then a long hot coffee, if he was lucky.

+++

Lucky…that was something he could count himself, Greg thought as he headed downstairs in search of the second thing on his list. The first, the shower, had been extremely pleasant, and all evidence of their activities last night had been washed away. He’d stood under the water for ages, letting the hot spray envelope him as he thought about how much had changed in the last day, week, fortnight. It was remarkable, yet a layer of uncertainty still prevented him from completely relaxing with his newfound bliss. He and John needed to tell the brothers the truth about the original plan. Greg suspected that Sherlock would take it more to heart than Mycroft – both brothers were manipulative, but Sherlock would feel that John had betrayed him, even if indirectly by speaking to Greg. Hopefully, John would still be prepared to tell Sherlock the truth today, so they could negate any fallout here, before they had to return to London. Greg wanted their return to London to be clean – either together or not. He voted for together, obviously, but it may not be up to him to decide.

Entering the kitchen, Greg supposed there was a silly kind of smile on his face, as he could feel it every time he thought about Mycroft. He remembered where the coffee was from yesterday, when he had also been first up. It was early, he conceded, and nobody had anywhere to be so it didn’t really matter that it was just him in this kitchen. He used the solitude to recall the whole of the previous evening, charades included. The smell of coffee and the quiet were a restful combination, and Greg was just recalling the finer points of his amorous activities when John stumbled in. Greg poured him a coffee without asking, noting the unshaven face and inside out t shirt.

“Sherlock still asleep, then?” Greg asked. In response to John’s blank face, he prompted, “Looks like you got dressed in the dark, mate.”

“Fair call.” John replied, raising his mug in a silent thank you. He looked like he’d slept badly, or shagged well, or both, Greg thought.

“Good night, then?” Greg asked, and John looked up and grinned at him.

“Me too.” Greg admitted, returning the gesture. After a moment of basking in their mutual conquests, however, the smile slid from Greg’s face. “Look, John, I still want to have that conversation with Mycroft today.” God, this was awkward. He could see how conflicted John was – his integrity warring with the knowledge that Sherlock was unlikely to be calm and accepting of the subterfuge.

“Yeah, I know.” John sighed, his own face having sobered when Greg had spoken. He straightened up into the military stance Greg noted he used when he was preparing for something unpleasant. “After breakfast we’ll go for a walk, okay? Just Sherlock and I, and you have my permission to tell Mycroft everything.” He sighed into his mug. “At least he might be able to talk to Sherlock afterwards if he knows the whole thing.”

“Hmmm, I don’t know about that.” The new voice startled both John and Greg, whose eyes flew to the doorway. Mummy stood there, her emerald green dressing gown tied tightly around her waist. She entered the kitchen, pouring herself a mug of coffee before joining them where they stood across the bench from each other.

“Mycroft and Sherlock have been getting on better than I have seen them for years, but I don’t know that Sherlock will necessarily listen to his brother any more than he ever has.” She said, her tone light. Greg was not fooled. The flint in her eyes was definitely there, and he knew they would have to tread carefully around this conversation. A quick glance to John confirmed his observations.

Of course, neither of them had really given Mummy her due.

“Come on, boys,” she said, and Greg started at the term. She seemed to have included them in her world view of her sons as ‘boys’, a label Greg had stopped associating with himself a long time ago. “Let’s put our cards on the table, shall we? As you know, I taught Sherlock and Mycroft the art of deduction, and my skill has not faded over the years. It was plain to see that your relationships with my sons were more complex than you lead us to think when you arrived. I could see that you two had sincere affection for my sons; I could also see the layers of concealment above their own emotions, though real admiration lay beneath it all. I deduced that somehow, you’d convinced the boys to ask you out here beneath the fiction of you being their respective intimate partners. You’d use the chance to have them on their own, in closer proximity than usual to try and seduce them. The picnics were a nice touch, by the way, and you’re welcome for my help in getting those happening.”

Greg saw John wince at the calculating way they had been painted in this description, but he had to admit that Mummy was accurate – this was, after all, their plan, stripped of the romantic overtones.

Mummy went on, “After overhearing your conversations last night, my deductions were confirmed. You and Mycroft” she raised her mug to a stunned Greg, “have clearly come to realise your relationship should be genuine, and I can see that last night was, erm, successful for you both.” Greg was flushing furiously at this statement from his partner’s mother. “And you, John, have managed to help Sherlock realise that his emotions do not detract from his mind.” Her mug was pointed in John’s direction now, his expression no less shocked than Greg’s was. “I can also see that you and he had a satisfying evening.” Greg saw the red tint John’s cheeks at the expose of his amorous activities. Mummy was looking at them with the same expression Sherlock wore when he was waiting for everyone else to process one of his deductions – part exasperation at their sluggishness, part elation at his own brilliance.

“This has been the best birthday weekend I’ve ever had, I must say.” Mummy went on. “However,” she said, setting her mug on the bench, “I must intercede in your plans to tell the boys about your subterfuge. I assume there was some manipulation of them in order to have each invite you as their guest this weekend?” John and Greg nodded silently and in unison, unable to speak. “Right. Based on last night’s conversation, I understand that Mycroft is likely to be less upset by the plan than Sherlock?” Her questioning tone was more interrogation than friendly chat, Greg realised. He certainly didn’t feel he had any choice but to reply. John gave Mummy a brief outline of the plan, figuring that she more or less knew about it anyway. Who knew, she might actually be an ally in this campaign that had spiralled further along than they had dreamed possible.

“Hmmm.” Mummy was thinking out loud, now. “So really, Mycroft was manipulated into inviting you, Greg, because of his feud with Sherlock.” Greg nodded, looking sheepish. “But Sherlock thinks that Mycroft inviting Greg is completely independent of his invitation to you?” Mummy’s question was directed at John, who nodded silently. She narrowed her eyes at John. “He’s going to think you betrayed him, going over to the other side.” John nodded, and Greg could see his misery. Poor guy, one perfect night and now he had to end it. Mummy was frowning. “The only thing I can’t work out is why Sherlock wanted to invite you in the first place?” John looked at her, a little offended, and she waved one hand impatiently, as her younger son so often did. “Oh, you know what I mean.”

John swallowed, then admitted quietly, “He wanted you and Father to stop…hassling him to find someone. He said this weekend is mainly you crying and both of you lamenting their lack of partners. Plus he thought it would irritate Mycroft, who would know it wasn’t real but couldn’t say anything.” The kitchen was silent for a moment as Mummy digested what John had said. Privately, Greg thought John had been a little harsh, obviously repeating Sherlock’s words, but Mummy wasn’t sparing anyone’s feeling either, so perhaps it would be okay. More likely, John was so focused on Sherlock’s reaction he hadn’t stopped to consider his exact words.

“I worry about them.” She said very quietly. “Constantly. I probably don’t show it particularly well, but I do. It breaks my heart to see them so alone.” Another moment of quiet, and she seemed to snap herself out of the reverie, and into action.

“Right then, we need a plan.” She said to the men, both of whom were still struggling a little to keep up. Who was this whirling dervish that had come to hijack their plans?

“You definitely need to tell them the truth.” Mummy said to both boys firmly. “Honestly, how you think a relationship can be successful built on lies, I have no idea. No matter, that’s in the past now, we need a strategy for the next” she glanced at the clock on the oven, “ten hours.” Her eyes sparkled as she leaned in to speak to them. “We’re going to make my sons realise how foolish they really are, thinking they can escape you two.”

 


	17. Sunday late morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More interesting conversations after the events of the nights before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, I've kept you hanging, dear readers! It's been a bit more of a wait this time as I've tried to figure out how to best say what needs to be said. Now that things are smooth sailing again, which is a relief!
> 
> Thank you for your patience! Not long to go now - it's Sunday already, and the boys are going home tonight. Who knows what could happen in the next 12 hours, though? ; )

John and Greg had returned to their respective rooms after their conversation with Mummy. They’d walked together up the stairs, neither speaking, each still processing the bewildering conversation that had happened in the kitchen below. John inclined his head to Greg in farewell before closing his door and carefully sliding back into bed with Sherlock. His mind was whirring with all that had happened. Mummy had decided on the plan, he and Greg had simply gone along with her suggestions, shell shocked as they had been by her calm pronouncements and deductions about them. She hadn’t seemed offended or surprised at learning about The Plan, as other people might have been; indeed, she seemed to view the whole event as great fun, a huge boost to her birthday weekend. John hoped she was enjoying the entertainment. He personally was anxious beyond measure at the idea of telling Sherlock about the plan. Betrayal was certain to be the first thing he thought of, especially given the state of his relationship with Mycroft before this weekend. Even if he listened to John for long enough to hear his motives, it was unlikely that he would understand. John had been terrified, basically. Terrified that Sherlock would, actually, find out about John’s feelings for him. And now, after so much effort, irony of ironies, that was what had happened, and it was glorious, and John had no choice now but to ruin it all. There was no way he could live with the guilt he felt, having started their relationship on such a lie. Not to mention, Greg and Mycroft (and now Mummy) would know the truth, and it was unlikely that they would be able to keep the truth from Sherlock for long.

John already longed for the moments they would never have together. It would be a magical weekend in his mind, never to be played out at Baker Street, at Angelo’s or on their occasional walks around Regent’s Park. Speaking of which, would Sherlock even want him to remain at Baker Street? Or come on cases? There was a good chance that John Watson had buggered up his whole life with this stupid idea. And the worst thing was, if he were not such a good man, he could happily live with it. And yet it was his sense of integrity that was making him be honest with Sherlock, valuing that aspect of their friendship above all else. He ground his teeth in frustration, wishing he could live with the lie, even for a short while.

John sighed, restless, rolling under the covers to throw one arm over Sherlock. They had both roused themselves enough for a slow, sleepy shower the previous night, before falling back into bed and immediately to sleep, wrapped around each other. Now, as John willed himself to fall back to sleep, Sherlock stirred. John groaned, feigning a headache after the wine, grateful that Sherlock did not question it. He just dressed and left quietly, the consideration a vast improvement on previous hangover experiences. John’s eyes opened again once the door had shut behind him, and he stared at the ceiling. How on earth was he going to do this?

 

_Meanwhile, downstairs…_

Sherlock strolled into the kitchen. Mycroft was there already, pouring tea into one of the delicate china teacups their mother favoured, though she was nowhere in sight.

“Sleep well, brother?” Sherlock asked, his voice quiet to match the somehow reflective mood of the midmorning light.

“Yes, thank you.” Mycroft replied, pouring tea into a second cup and passing it over. They sipped for a moment, enjoying the quiet and the tea, before Mycroft spoke.

“Gregory and I are…involved.” He said, colouring slightly.

“But of course, you are.” Sherlock replied, slightly mocking tone to show he kept up the fiction. He frowned, then, and tiled his head in surprise. “No, no, no, you mean genuinely.” The surprise was evident in his voice, and he asked hesitantly, “The picnic?” Mycroft nodded, seemingly relieved Sherlock was neither sneering nor laughing at the information.

“John and I shagged like rabbits last night.” Sherlock commented casually, watching with enjoyment as Mycroft almost spit tea across the kitchen.

“Really.” Mycroft replied. “How refined of you.”

Sherlock grinned. “From the look of your careful posture, Mycroft, shagging was on your agenda last night also.” He laughed as his brother’s earlier flush was wiped away by the ferocious red of the true ginger’s blush. Oddly enough, the laughter was not malicious; Mycroft’s glance at Sherlock was more exasperation than venom.

“So we’ve both fallen victims to sentiment, then.” Mycroft stated, a level of satisfaction in his voice.

Sherlock nodded. “It would appear so.”

“And are you happy, little brother?” Mycroft asked, with genuine curiosity.

Sherlock considered the question. “I believe so.”

“It’s not as uncomfortable as I imagined. Happiness.” Mycroft admitted. Sherlock hummed in response.

“Though I understand the rule of cohabitation may be quite complex.” Mycroft added.

Sherlock looked at him in surprise. “Are you planning on asking Greg to move in with you?”

Mycroft shrugged, looking into his tea. “It seems the most practical solution. We are both busy men, and the efficiency of living in the same house will maximise the time we can spend together. Clearly, my home is larger and more comfortably appointed than his, so…probably.”

Sherlock considered this. “Fortunately John and I already share our flat, though I anticipate a change in dynamic now that we are” he waved his hand in the air, “this.”

“I believe acceptable terms include partner, significant other and” Mycroft sneered a little as he said, “boyfriend.” Sherlock shuddered at the term, then caught his brother’s eye.

“Good Lord, can you believe we are even in a position to have this conversation?” Mycroft murmured, and both broke into wry laughter.

“It has been a long time since we have talked at all, Mycroft.” Sherlock said quietly, and his brother sobered.

“Our separation while I was at school was not ideal.”

“Nobody told me why you had to go.” Sherlock knew he sounded childish, but it was true.

“But now, as an adult, you understand.”

“Sibling patterns of interaction are laid at an early age, and are difficult to break.” Sherlock replied. Then he added, “I do understand, of course.” Both knew that this was as close to an apology they would get on either side, and they sat quietly for a few moments.  “Do you think this can really work, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, his words melancholy.

He was already mapping out their demise as a couple, Mycroft could see. He considered the question carefully, before replying, “If it can work with anyone, it will be with John and Gregory.”

Sherlock nodded, then said, “I’m going to see the bees.”

Mycroft nodded, watching his brother’s tailored suit disappear out the door and across the patio.

+++

A few hours later, Mummy and Father sat on the patio, having served the buffet luncheon in the kitchen to be eaten outside at their leisure. Sherlock had been dragged back from the beehives, grumbling, and he and Mycroft had headed upstairs to rouse their respective partners.

Five minutes later, they stood in the corridor, looking blankly at each other.

“John states that he is feeling unwell and will not be coming down for lunch.” Sherlock said flatly.

Mycroft nodded. “Greg also claims to be unwell, and regrets his absence from the meal.” They stood for a moment, as though unsure what to do, before making their way downstairs in silence, brains working overtime. Each sat at the patio table with such an air of absentmindedness that Mummy sent Father in to serve their lunch. When he’d brought it back, she said, “John and Greg not coming down for lunch, then?”

Both her sons shook their heads, exchanging glances like guilty schoolboys.

“And I assume this makes you uneasy because,” she considered for a moment, “you are not sure their reasons for absenting themselves are genuine.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes a little before admitting in a small voice, “Yes, Mummy.”

Mycroft had not touched the meal in front of him, instead staring into space as he contemplated the reasons that Greg might actually have for pretending to be ill.

“They are good friends, are they not?” Mycroft asked Sherlock suddenly.

Sherlock frowned. “I suppose. They meet at the pub a lot.”

Mycroft hesitated, shooting a look at Mummy, who appeared to now be occupied in a conversation with Father, before saying quietly, “Do you think that they might be looking for an opportunity to see each other without us?”

Sherlock looked blank, and Mycroft blew out a puff of air in exasperation. “Intimately, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide, then narrowed as he considered the idea. His gaze flickered to Mummy, then he replied, “I’m not sure. Certainly Greg and John have a high level of personal integrity, so I doubt very much they would be involved in something so underhanded.”

“Are you talking about John and Greg?” Mummy asked, surprise in her voice.

Sherlock cursed himself. She had been listening, at least enough to hear the last of their conversation.

“Yes, Mummy.” Mycroft replied in a resigned tone.

“Underhanded? I can’t see that in either of them.” She said.

“What makes you think there might be something going on?”

The brothers shared another guilty look, and Mycroft admitted, “Neither of them is actually hungover right now, and yet they remain in bed rather than coming downstairs.”

Mummy smiled indulgently at her inexperienced sons. “Needing some time to oneself is not a capital crime, Mycroft.” She said, affection in her tone.

“Not to be indelicate, but neither of you is particularly experienced in the intimate relationship department.” Mummy told them, indelicacy seeming to be the last thing she was worried about avoiding. “John and Greg are good men, and neither would deliberately mislead you any more than you would them.” Sherlock shunned his brother’s eyes at this loaded statement. Mummy had continued, “Not without extenuating circumstances, and I’m sure the guilt would eat away at both of them anyway.” Her tone became sterner. “Don’t you do anything to let them go, do you hear me? They are good men, and you deserve them, but you also need to be worthy.” She looked severely at them, before her expression softened. “Oh, boys. You should each go out for a walk around our gardens this afternoon. The country air will be good for their hangovers.”  She stood and kissed both her boys before she and Father disappeared inside.

“She knows something we don’t.” Sherlock said, the second she had disappeared.

“Definitely.” Mycroft replied, the concern in his voice clear to Sherlock.

“Extenuating circumstances, she said.” Sherlock reminded his brother unnecessarily.

“I suspect we will find out whatever it is this afternoon, in our not-all-that-spontaneous walks around the gardens.” Mycroft remarked. Both men fell silent, wondering what on earth Mummy could know about John and Greg that they did not.

“Whatever it is, brother,” Mycroft said, turning to his brother, “Don’t do anything rash.”

Sherlock looked at his brother in astonishment. “I beg your pardon?” He said.

Mycroft sighed. “It has become clear to me that Greg has harboured amorous feelings towards me since before the beginning of this weekend. I suspect John has done the same with you. We were foolish to believe otherwise.” Sherlock nodded his head in agreement. There was no denying it, his conversations with John had made that irrefutable.

“Given the series of events this weekend, legitimising both of our relationships, I believe the dishonesty they wish to disclose is simply that they agreed to the fictitious relationships under false pretences, hoping they would be converted to genuine before the weekend was complete.”

Sherlock nodded, Mycroft’s logic making sense. He breathed deeply. That was a satisfactory solution to his concern. He and John would be fine.


	18. Sunday Stroll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two admissions, two reactions, and one big brother telling it like it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the reward for your patience - two chapters in one day! This one's packed with angsty goodness, too.
> 
> Remember, comments and kudos are love! <3

In the afternoon sun, John should have been relaxed, walking arm in arm with his newly discovered…lover? Partner? Certainly not boyfriend. They had not yet discussed it, but whatever it was, it should be making him happy. Instead he was a bundle of nerves, knowing he had committed to telling Sherlock the whole truth about how Greg had come to be here.

John had basically ignored everything Sherlock had said so far, rattling on about the bees, before he opened his mouth, unable to hold it in any longer.  “I need to tell you something, Sherlock.”

Something about his tone of voice made Sherlock stop in his detailed explanation of when a hive knows it’s time to produce another queen.

He looked at John, his own nerves evident in his eyes. “Yes, John?” He said and waited, fairly sure he knew what John was going to say, but always slightly tensed in case the news was not what he had been expecting.

It wasn’t.

“I’m just going to say the whole thing, so for goodness’ sake don’t interrupt or walk off halfway through, okay?” John began, and at Sherlock’s nod of agreement, he launched into his monologue. “Greg and Mycroft knew about our plan, well, _your_ plan, for us to come down here pretending to be a couple. There weren’t any bugs at Baker Street, Mycroft found out because I told Greg, and we stumbled on the idea of him and Mycroft doing the same thing. I didn’t say anything because I figured it would maintain the status quo if you both had partners here, but you wouldn’t have to deal with your mother’s worry.” John swallowed nervously before ploughing on. He wasn’t even looking at Sherlock anymore, the shame overcoming him as he spoke. “I agreed to help you not just because you’re my friend, Sherlock. I told you I wanted us to be…more for a long time, and that was true – I admit I thought that if we spent the weekend pretending you might see that we could be good together. But I was also worried that you might not see it the same way, and things would become too awkward. Or worse, Mycroft might deduce our lie and expose it. If he had his own partner – and someone who felt about him as I felt – feel – about you, he would be too distracted to either notice or to care. It also gave us leverage against him if he did figure it out and approach you.” John cringed more and more as he spoke. It had seemed like such fun, an age ago in the pub, but spelling it out like this made him and Greg seem like scheming opportunists taking advantage of both Mycroft and Sherlock.

John risked a glance at Sherlock. He was staring at John, a mix of hurt and horror on his face as he processed the words.

“Mycroft did know?” he said, then added more quietly. “You told him?” John nodded. The semantics of him actually telling Greg, knowing it would get back to Mycroft seemed irrelevant right now.

Sherlock had started nodding as John told his story, the words matching up with the predicted scenario in his head. When John admitted his own role, however, things went a little fuzzy in his brain. John was part of this? Not only did he know that Mycroft would be bringing someone this weekend, but he knew that Mycroft knew about John and Sherlock, and John knew that Mycroft knew that Sherlock didn’t know. Complex as the details were, the main point was crystal clear – John had betrayed him, going behind his back to Mycroft. Sherlock had told John how Mummy’s behaviour had affected him, and John had still told Greg about Sherlock’s plan, knowing he would in turn convince Mycroft to imitate it. Sherlock’s head was whirling as John stood looking anxiously at him, waiting for a response.

 

_Meanwhile, on the other side of the garden…_

Greg looked at his fingers, laced together with Mycroft’s as they so often were now. They seemed unable to be close without some form of contact, and Greg was finding it comforting. He felt awful this morning, faking a hangover to get Mycroft and Sherlock to talk to their mother without John and Sherlock present. Mummy Holmes had left little room for negotiation. That particular plan was still in motion, however, so admissions would have to wait until later. Provided of course that there was a later.

“What it is, Gregory?” Mycroft asked. There was no suspicion in his voice, no accusation. He asked calmly, as though whatever was troubling Greg would certainly be as easy to solve as, ‘I’ve used the last of the honey.’

Greg swallowed nervously, turning to face Mycroft. “It’s about the story I told you when we were at the folly.” He admitted. Mycroft nodded, a small smile as he said, “Go on.” He had not withdrawn his fingers, and Greg drew strength from that small detail.

“I told you that John was drunk when he told me about Sherlock’s plan, and that my motivation was your wellbeing. Part of that was true, but there was more.” Greg pushed on, looking down at their hands as though Mycroft’s might disappear at any moment. Greg outlined their conversation – John’s admission of the plan, his hopes and fears for the weekend; the understanding between John and Greg about their attraction to the respective Holmes’ brother; the joke about Greg convincing Mycroft, then the realisation that it could actually work; the careful blending of the truth and falsehoods as Greg manipulated Mycroft into inviting him here. Greg did not spare himself in the telling; he wanted Mycroft to see as close to the truth as possible, so he could make a judgement about Greg’s actions. Waiting for the verdict, Greg felt sick. His gaze was on their hands, the gravel below swimming in and out of focus as he blinked the tears that threatened. He was very much emotionally invested, even after such a short time, and the wait was torturous.

“Gregory,” Mycroft asked quietly, “May I reframe your story?”

Confused, Greg nodded.

Mycroft concentrated for a moment, then said, “Despite no encouragement on my behalf, you found yourself so attracted to me that you enlisted the help of your admittedly self-serving friend to manipulate me into being your faux partner for the weekend, hoping against hope that I would realise I too desired more than friendship.” Greg blushed to hear himself recast so heroically.

Nonchalantly, he shrugged, though his hands trembled. “You could frame it that way, if you wanted to.”

Mycroft nodded, tightening his fingers around Greg’s. “Very much.” He said. Greg looked at him in astonishment as he continued, “From my perspective, Gregory, you spent a great deal of effort to put yourself in a position to seduce me.” He smiled almost shyly. “That level of commitment has never been applied to me.”

Greg grinned a little hesitantly. ‘You’re worth it, Mycroft.” He hesitated. “You’re not angry?”

“Far from it – flattered would be a better word.”

Greg raised one hand, the backs of his fingers trailing softly down Mycroft’s cheek. “I am so lucky and grateful to have you.”

Mycroft shifted his weight so their foreheads touched, the intimate moment buoying Greg. Mycroft knew the plan, and he hadn’t left, or even been upset. His lucky stars had indeed aligned, thought Greg, a happy buzz rippling through his body.

 The moment was over too soon. Through his buzz, Greg felt Mycroft stiffen.

“What?” Greg asked.

“Why are you telling me this?” Mycroft asked.

Greg looked at him in confusion. “Why?” he repeated. “Because I don’t want to start out with a lie between us, Mycroft.”

Mycroft looked at him, eyes narrowed in thought. “You haven’t told me anything about us that I could not have already deduced from our conversations.” He said, blue eyes widening as he realised, “You told me John’s story, not your own. John’s going to tell Sherlock everything, isn’t he?”

Greg nodded, still not completely sure why Mycroft was getting so agitated. “Yeah. I had to tell you, I wanted us to go back to London without secrets.” Except this plan with Mummy, he thought, but that was nothing in comparison. Easily dealt with in the car. “John was more reluctant. I think he and Sherlock are less…open than we are.”

“But he is telling Sherlock the same? Everything?” Mycroft pressed, and as soon as Greg responded in the affirmative, Mycroft turned to walk away. He paused, then dropped a reassuring kiss on Greg’s mouth, looking intently into his eyes for a brief moment before striding purposefully towards where Sherlock and John were standing, talking.

+++

Unsure of his emotions, Sherlock retreated to his mind palace, sitting down on the gravel path right in the middle of the garden. John saw his eyes close and made his own deduction. Shit. So a bit not good, really. The worst thing about this response from Sherlock was that there actually was no response – John could tell he was upset, hurt, definitely some anger in there, but he had no way of reaching Sherlock in his mind palace. No way to talk to him, find out what he was thinking.

Frustrated, John turned on the spot, looking around the formal garden. His eyes fell on Mycroft, who was striding over, a look of supreme irritation on his face. From the look of helplessness on Greg’s face in the background, they had also had the conversation, and now Mycroft was coming for his brother. To what end, John had no idea.

“John.” Mycroft said surprisingly calmly given the look on his face.

“Mycroft.” John replied, having no idea how Mycroft had responded. He hadn’t left, or hit Greg or anything, but to be fair, most of the worst of it was on John.

“I’d like to speak to Sherlock, if you wouldn’t mind.” Mycroft’s voice was mild yet broached no discussion.

“Of course, but he’s…” John gestured.

“Yes, I can see. Perhaps you could see if there’s more of the lemon barley water in the kitchen? Thank you.”

John felts like a small boy being given an errand to get him out of the way. He suppressed the irritation and meekly did as he was asked.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, his voice softer. He had sat down on the path next to his brother. “Can you come out and play?” This had worked when Sherlock was a child, before Mycroft had gone off to school and their close bond had been so badly damaged.

Sherlock didn’t move anything but his eyes, which opened to look straight at his brother.

“Yes?” He asked blankly, as though his mind was working hard in the background and this was simply the user interface.

“Come out and play, Sherlock.” Mycroft coaxed, waiting for the spark to come back to his brother.

“Must I?” Sherlock protested, his voice plaintive.

“Just for a little while.” Mycroft promised.

Sherlock sighed, then the blankness left his face, and he tuned his head to look at Mycroft. “What is it?” He asked, his anxiety coming across as an abrupt, rude tone. Mycroft knew him, though, and could see the maelstrom of emotions whirling below the surface.

“Gregory told me the whole story.” Mycroft stated, watching his brother carefully.

Sherlock nodded woodenly. “Are you upset with him?” Sherlock found himself asking.

Mycroft shook his head. “No.” He replied, waiting patiently.

Sherlock’s next question came quickly. “Why not?” He asked. “He went behind your back…” Sherlock trailed off here.

Mycroft took a breath and sighed. “He manipulated me into doing what he wanted – hardly a surprise, given my reticence to even allow a friendship. What choice did he have? In the past I have manipulated him too, though generally for professional purposes. My point, dear brother, is that Gregory so desired an opportunity to be intimate with me” Mycroft’s face was red at this admission, “that he risked our relationship before it even started; and then again today, knowing that a clean slate would be best. His motives may have been mixed, but there was genuine concern and affection at the heart of them.” Mycroft leaned forward, emphasising his next words. “John has done the same, Sherlock, though his risk was far greater.” Sherlock looked up in surprise from where he had been playing with the tiny stones on which he sat. “He has risked your friendship and companionship by enlisting Greg – but why would he do such a thing?” A pause as Sherlock considered this. “According to Greg, John’s main concern was your emotional state during this weekend, hence his initial agreement to accompany you under the ruse you first proposed. But John was apprehensive, Sherlock, not knowing how this weekend would progress. He was concerned that he could not keep his true feelings from you in such close quarters across the weekend, yet you would not let him decline without knowing the truth. He felt no choice but to accompany you and to take the opportunity to test the nature of your relationship. If things went well, he might experience a new intensity to your relationship. A poorer outcome might see him return to London without a place to live, but more importantly, without his friend, constant companion, and colleague. A friend, in this scenario, would be invaluable, and how else to bring Gregory here? Even you must admit, the circumstances were perfectly aligned for this scenario. Given Gregory’s emotional connection to me, John would not have had to push him, Sherlock. Indeed, Greg may very well have been the first to seriously consider such an opportunity.”

Sherlock had listened to this, his hands still worrying at the stones that lay around them. Mycroft did not know what else to say. “Consider it, brother. We have both shunned this kind of connection for a long time, perhaps it is time to let someone in. For better or worse, John Watson would be a worthy partner. Has he not shown his regard for you every day of your acquaintance?” With this question hanging in the air, Mycroft rose, brushing the grit off his suit.

“We will be in the house, I think, Sherlock.” He said, and departed, leaving Sherlock to think about his words.


	19. He'll Be With the Bees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mummy shows how well she knows Sherlock, talking to him about what's happening with John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was fun, as BAMFMummy has been in this story! I've loved fleshing her out as the astute no nonsense type, with the deductive skills of Sherlock and Mycroft. She's still their mum, though, so a bit of empathy was always on the books.
> 
> And where else would Sherlock hide for some space? ; )

As he always did when he was troubled, Sherlock made his way to the beehives. He was not surprised to find Mummy waiting for him there. She had always known where to find him.

Sherlock approached her, sitting on the bench alongside. They sat in silence for a few moments, before Mummy spoke.

“John’s nice.” Her tone was mild, and Sherlock looked sideways at her, and she at him, before they both broke into wry laughter. The release felt good, he realised.

“There’s my boy.” Mummy said affectionately. “Now tell me what on earth is going on, Sherlock.”

He looked at her for a long moment. “I suspect you know more than you’re letting on already.” Sherlock’s tone was certain, almost challenging.

Mummy raised an eyebrow, impressed. “Of course I do, Sherlock. Remember who taught you to not only see,” Sherlock said the last two words with her, “but observe.”

“Yes, I remember, Mummy.” He said, a smile playing over his lips before fading. He sighed. “I never thought I’d have all this.” Sherlock admitted to his mother. She looked steadily at him until he kept talking. “John is remarkable, Mummy.” He stopped, not sure how to explain the maelstrom of emotions inside him.

“Do you know when I realised that you and John were not, in fact, as you wanted to appear?” Mummy asked him, changing the subject. Sherlock shook his head. “About two minutes after you arrived.” Sherlock nodded, his face impassive. It was Mummy’s turn to shake her head. “Oh, Sherlock. You are a good actor, but John has the light in his eyes of someone who has won the lottery of life. It was clear to me, at least, that you and he had so much potential, but there was something there, something stuck between you. I could see what a good man John is, Sherlock – for whatever reason, he had agreed to pretend this with you, which must have been immensely difficult for him. I pushed you a little in the right direction, of course, and you had your picnic where it was clear that things happened.” She looked knowingly at him, and Sherlock felt the guilty blush grace his cheeks.

“Last night was one of the best nights of my life, Sherlock.” She said softly, placing her hand affectionately on his flushed cheek. “You and John had clearly overcome whatever it was, as had Mycroft and Greg-“

“You knew about them too?” Sherlock interrupted.

“Of course. Seeing both my boys happy, genuinely happy with such gentlemen was truly wonderful.” She smiled at her younger son. “Whatever it is that’s flared up between you, Sherlock, you need to figure it out. You are many brilliant things, but easy to love is not one of them. Don’t you dare lose that man in there, Sherlock. He loves you, whether he’d admit it to you or not, and he makes you more at ease than I’ve ever seen you.”

“He lied to me, Mummy.” Sherlock’s voice was plaintive.

“Yes, of course he did, you silly boy.” Mummy replied, impatient and surprised at his complaint. “You and he will always have that kind of relationship, haven’t you always? Haven’t you lied to him, told him half-truths, omitted things entirely? Why would that change now?”

Sherlock blinked. It was true, of course; he and John had always been like that. He was better at it than John, plus he could always deduce when John was lying, but neither of them was entirely truthful with the other all of the time.

“You do need to stop that, you know.” Mummy said, “It’s rude to deduce the man you love.”

Sherlock blinked again, the only motion of which he seemed capable at the time. “The man…the man _I_ love?” he asked. The words felt alien, yet right in his mouth. He loved John. He was in love with John Watson. Inside him it was the same – strange and unfamiliar but reassuring all the same, the truth a comfortable weight against his heart. Well, it would explain several of his decisions of late, as well as the swelling in his chest when he had seen John last night in his tuxedo, and held his face to look into those wonderful eyes…

“Besides,” Mummy said, briskly moving on now that Sherlock seemed to be coming around from his revelation, “he’s a soldier. No soldier goes into battle with an unknown foe without backup. Greg was the logical choice, not only as a friend but, conveniently enough, he was infatuated with your brother, a logical cover story.” Mummy was looking at Sherlock witheringly now, as though he had been disappointingly slow in appreciating these key points.

“Now, are you coming in for tea, or not?” Mummy asked.

“Just a moment.” Sherlock replied, standing slowly, a new light in his eyes. “I need to find John.” Impulsively, he bent down and kissed his mother on the cheek.

“Thank you.” He said, low and heartfelt before striding off.

“Oh Sherlock,” Mummy murmured, “Finally.”

+++

John was standing on the patio, alone, at Mycroft and Mummy’s insistence. Mycroft had found him in the kitchen making tea, his default comfort routine, and bundled him outside without explanation as Mummy went in search of Sherlock.

“Mummy will send Sherlock along momentarily.” Mycroft said and turned to leave. He paused, and then spoke again without fully turning around. “Be kind, please John, whatever happens. My brother is exceptionally bright in many areas, but matters of the heart are not one of those areas.”

“Yeah, I know, Mycroft.” John said resignedly. “Thanks.”

Mycroft inclined his head then strode away, leaving John in the cooling air on the patio. He had buggered this up, no question. If he was lucky, Sherlock would let him keep living at Baker Street for a while; he could always find some extra locum work and another flat quickly enough. The thought of leaving Baker Street made him feel physically ill, and he put his mug down on the railing. Why, oh why, could he not have just got drunk and snogged Sherlock like a normal person would do? Why did he have to invent some convoluted grand plan and drag Greg into it just to try it on with his flatmate? And Greg of course, had the fairy tale ending, handsome prince and all. Well, handsome to him, John thought. He really didn’t know what Greg saw in Mycroft, but the point stood – the weekend was a resounding success for Greg and a definitive failure for John.

As John contemplated calling Sarah right now to ask if there was any extra work going, his heart skipped a beat. In the fading light, he saw a tall figure striding purposefully up the gravel path. If not for the sound of shoes on the gravel, John might have thought he was seeing a vision; it was Sherlock, returning from wherever he had been. John swallowed hard. This was not a conversation he was looking forward to.

“Sherlo-“ he started to say, but that was as far as he got before Sherlock’s large hands were cradling his face, lips dropping on his in a fierce kiss. John was startled, trying to speak. His open mouth allowed Sherlock the opportunity and he took it, sliding his own mouth open and running his tongue along the inside of John’s lips.

“Sherlock!” John exclaimed, pulling forcibly back. “What the hell’s going on?”

Sherlock’s face was almost a scowl, but he said, “I love you, John.”

John’s face did not move as he processed this. “I beg your pardon?” he managed finally.

Sherlock made the little noise of impatience that John associated with Anderson. “Do keep up, John. I  said I love you.”

“That- that’s what I thought you said.” John replied, aware of how stupid he sounded. He took Sherlock’s hand and removed them from his head, saying, “Can you maybe tell me what’s just happened? Because last time we spoke, you’d gone into your mind palace.” He frowned a moment. “You do remember our last conversation, Sherlock? You haven’t deleted it or something?” He looked anxiously at Sherlock. That was one conversation he did not want to have to repeat.

“Of course I remember John.” Sherlock smiled at John now, a radiant smile. “I just didn’t fully appreciate the situation.” His face turned mock severe. “You really should be clearer, John.”

John blinked. “I lied to you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I’ve lied to you before.”

John tried again, not sure if Sherlock understood. “I told Greg your plan, knowing he would tell Mycroft.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “You brought back up into an unknown situation. Always the soldier, John. Very clever, actually.”

Okay, last time you try to shoot yourself in the foot, John’s brain told his mouth. “Sherlock, I agreed to this whole thing as a way of getting into your pants.”

Sherlock’s grin turned sultry. “And aren’t we both glad you did?” He replied, moving closer and sliding both hands firmly onto John’s arse, bringing their hips together. John jumped, and fought him off, blushing and checking that nobody had seen them.

“John, I simply needed a new perspective on this. My experience is quite limited, I have few points of reference.” He shrugged. “What you did was no worse than some of the cases we’ve worked, when you’ve not know where we’re going, or what’s going to be there when we arrive.”

He looked so calm and confident that John started, just a little bit, to believe his words.

“So you’re not angry, then?” John asked cautiously. With supreme patience, Sherlock shook his head.

“Who did you speak to, then?” John asked, his military stance relaxing a little.

“Mummy found me at the bees. She knows I like to go there to think.”

“And did she tell you that she and Greg and I had a talk this morning?” John asked. Might as well get everything out in the open, he thought, while Sherlock was in such a forgiving frame of mind.

“Doesn’t surprise me. I’ve told you she taught Mycroft and I to observe. She picked up on our arrangement within moments of our arrival.” Sherlock grinned. “There was no way Mummy would let an opportunity like that slip through her fingers. She’s a supremely skilled meddler, you know.” Sherlock looked so pleased that a tiny suspicion started dawning on John.

“So you knew she’d see through us, then?” he asked. Without waiting for an answer, John went on, “And you knew that she would ‘meddle’, try and get us together over this weekend?”

Sherlock looked guilelessly at John, his voice full of innocence. “Of course not, John.”

John stared, open mouthed at Sherlock. “So this was actually your plan, not mine.” He poked one finger hard into Sherlock’s chest. “Did you know that I- I mean, that I felt-“

Sherlock’s smug expression turned a little guilty, and a flush rose up his neck. “I suspected, but I had no proof.” His shrug was awkward this time, trying to cover his embarrassment. “I also suspected I had feelings for you, however I had no context for them. I needed proof, I needed to experiment with a different relationship with you. This weekend has distinct potential to explore that possibility under the guise of our cover story.” He looked apprehensively at John. “Are you angry?”

John considered this. He was annoyed, sure – but no more than he had been on any other occasion. Sherlock had used him for experiments before, and probably would again. The only difference was that this time the payoff was much, much bigger.

“Not angry.” he said, trying to be truthful. “Annoyed at both of us, we’re idiots, you know.” He chuckled now. “Who knew that you were an ally in this soldier game you painted me in?”

Sherlock smiled at that, and they both took a step in, foreheads touching for a moment before a kiss marked the end of this silly, complicated chapter in their lives together.


	20. So long, farewell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fluffy finish as the boys return to London, so different now than they arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe this is finished! I had a bit of a blockage last week, hence the break in publication, but it all suddenly came together in my head and I just couldn't believe it worked! 
> 
> Thanks so much to [KaraRenee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/KaraRenee/pseuds/KaraRenee) for reading the last few chapters when I wondered if they actually worked - they seemed to happen too easily! She was convinced, which was enough for me so here's the last four chapters in two days for you all.
> 
> I just can't resist publishing the last chapters in a rush, I love to share the ending and we all like when our WIP's are updated. I hope you've all enjoyed this - it was complex in my head to start, and the relationships differentiated themselves quite a lot more than I thought they would. It was a great exercise in the differences between Mystrade and Johnlock.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read since the start, and those who've come in meanwhile and demanded more when they realised it was unfinished - the best kind of pressure is people loving your work! It drives me to create and I love it.
> 
> As always I'm flattered and humbled by all the lovely comments. 
> 
> <3 K

Greg wondered if Mummy would shrivel up, given the volume of tears she had shed this evening. Now that Sherlock and John had cleared up their misunderstanding (whatever that was – Greg expected their drinks at the pub this week to be very informative), Mummy Homes had reverted from slightly-scary-brisk-woman-in-charge to the teary, I’m-so-happy-for-my-boys Mummy that Sherlock had painted her as in the first place. Their evening meal had been punctuated by the happy sighs of Mummy, fond looks towards her boys and the quiet satisfaction that radiated from Father. He had barely spoken this whole weekend, really, Greg thought, but it was clear how contented it made him to see his sons happy. He’d kept a steady stream of handkerchiefs coming to Mummy when she had started crying immediately after dinner.

“The cars will be here soon,” Father had explained quietly, as all four younger men looked at each other – Greg and John in alarm at this sudden onset of tears, Mycroft and Sherlock in affectionate exasperation.

“She couldn’t get through one short weekend without crying at us.” Mycroft grumbled, though he stopped when Greg slipped their hands together. Sherlock and John had volunteered to collect all the bags, though they were taking their time. Greg smirked to himself – he had a good idea what was taking so long. It seemed that now they’d worked out their new dynamic properly, they were trying hard to make up for lost time. Sherlock had practically groped John at the dinner table, and for all his protestations, the wide grin that split John’s face made it clear that he was only worried about embarrassing the others at the table, rather than any fundamental issues with Sherlock’s hands on his upper thigh.

Greg watched as Father murmured a steady stream into Mummy’s ear. She was valiantly trying to get a hold of herself enough to speak to the, and was failing spectacularly. It seemed that the only thing able to make her cry harder than her boys without partners, was her boys with partners. Oh the irony, Greg thought, Sherlock’s plan has backfired here.

“Thank goodness we’re not sharing a car with those two.” Greg murmured, his breath warm on Mycroft’s face.

“Gregory we will have to have a talk about this – I would prefer if you never made any implications about my brother’s intimacies with John. Ever.” He shuddered, and Greg chuckled.

“What about suggestions?”

“Gregory.”

“Insinuations?”

“No.”

“Allusions?”

“Gregory.”

“Can I do this?” Greg wiggled his eyebrows up and down, breaking into laughter at the severe look Mycroft threw his way.

“Not in that context, no.” Mycroft murmured, leaning in close, letting his own breath ghost over Greg’s ear, followed every so lightly by his lips. He pulled back, grinning at Greg, who returned the gesture. Their gaze was steady and open, sending a thrill through Greg.

“Okay, okay, no need for the eye sex.” Grumbled Sherlock struggling under a huge load of bags and garment cases.  
“Told you we should have made two trips.” John said, and added so Mummy and Father couldn’t hear, “And we’re not in the position to be complaining about other people’s PDAs, Sherlock.”

“Agreed.” Greg seconded, copping a dirty look from Sherlock and a smug one from John.

They loaded their bags and said their goodbyes, Father shaking everyone’s hand and Mummy kissing all four of ‘her boys’ resoundingly on the cheek. Sherlock climbed into the first car without speaking to Mycroft or Greg, thought John turned and waved at them both. They could hear him admonishing Sherlock for his rudeness before the door slammed behind him. Greg shook his head. Good to know they were back to normal.

“So now everyone knows everything.” Greg said with a satisfied smile. It was a relief to be able to relax, not having to keep ‘who knows what’ in his head now. The openness with Mycroft was a burden released, too. Greg had hated keeping anything from Mycroft – he’d had enough secrets with his ex-wife, and he was determined to start this relationship off on the right (honest) foot.

Mycroft hummed in a not-quite-agreeing way.

Greg shot him a look. “Don’t they?” he asked pointedly.

Mycroft shrugged, then said, “I think you and Mummy and John must have had an interesting conversation over breakfast this morning, Gregory.”

Greg stared at him for a second before cursing. “Shit! That’s right we did. I got so caught up in all this afternoon’s drama I forgot about it.” A wave of guilt rolled over him. “I’m sor-“

Mycroft cut him off with a kiss, their mouth moulding together as closely as the seating arrangements would allow.

“I don’t care, Gregory.” Mycroft said calmly after he’d thoroughly kissed Greg, leaving him dazed and conveniently unable to speak. “I am not surprised that Mummy interfered, it’s exactly what she would do. Besides,” and Greg noticed a flush working up from under his collar in amazement, “I hardly advertised the fact that, once I’d been shown ‘the goods’ as it were,” the flush intensified, “I could think of little more in the week preceding this weekend.”

“The goods?” Greg managed with a straight face.

“Yes, you kissed me rather suggestively at the Diogenes Club when you first offered to help me. Don’t you remember?” Mycroft looked put out when Greg burst out laughing, gasping, “the goods? I’m ‘the goods’?”

Greg finally managed to pull himself together enough to finish their conversation. “So neither of us was completely without ulterior motive, then.” It made him feel a bit better about the subterfuge that Mycroft was dabbling in a little of it himself. Greg grinned. They were a well matched pair, after all. Mycroft slid his hand onto Greg’s thigh, and his heartrate accelerated dramatically.

“So, are you planning on dropping me home?” Greg asked casually, as their car moved towards London.

“Well actually,” Mycroft said, his thumb tracing a design across the back of Greg’s thigh, making him shiver, “I was thinking, not.”

Greg pretended to consider this, though his face split into a wide grin. “Sleepover, then.”

Mycroft’s face was serious. “Our lives are busy, Gregory, and my work is often unpredictable and classified.”

“I know, Mycroft.” Greg said, worried now that Mycroft was having second thoughts. He placed his own hand over Mycroft’s, stilling the moving thumb. “My work is not exactly nine-to-five either, you know?”

Mycroft cleared his throat nervously. “I am not concerned about our understanding of each other’s professional obligations, Gregory.” He stated. “We should arrange our lives to maximise the time we are able to spend together.”

Greg’s heart started to beat faster as he realised where Mycroft was going. He waited a beat, and when Mycroft did not speak, Greg broke the silence. “I guess I should just move in with you then.”

Mycroft’s hand flexed, and Greg grinned, pressing against it with his own. “I assume that the wildly dramatic response means I surprised you, hey?”

Mycroft smiled. “An absurd notion.” He retorted, affectionately. “What do you think, then?”

Greg knew he was talking about the idea of their living together. “You are the clever one, Mycroft.” He leaned in and pressed his lips to Mycroft, loving that the taste of him was become familiar. Mycroft kissed him back, deep emotion driving his slightly desperate actions.

“I think you could have a claim to that title, Gregory.” Mycroft murmured as the kiss finally wound down. “You and John did manage to deceive two of the smartest men in Britain.”

“Yeah,” Greg said, “Yeah, we did, didn’t we?”

He looked smugly at Mycroft, and couldn’t resist leaning over to kiss him again, just because he was allowed to, now.


	21. Epilogue I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 of what happened after that weekend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd thought this was finished, and all of a sudden this jumped into my head and resolved itself in a surprisingly short time. 
> 
> As Kara pointed out, there will have to be a part 2. All in good time...

John stood at the bar, waiting for Greg. He’d ordered for both of them, and the head on his beer hadn’t started dropping before Greg arrived, standing next to his friend with a broad grin. They picked up their glasses and clinked them together before either spoke, drinking deeply.

“Should we get a booth?” Greg asked, looking to the half empty bar.

John shook his head, saying with a forced casualness, “Nah, let’s hang out here.”

Greg frowned as he looked at John, then understanding flooded him and he burst out laughing, eyes sparkling as he assessed his friend’s slight discomfort as he shifted his weight.

“So I’m assuming you and Sherlock have found a way to fill the time, then?” Greg chuckled, and John’s blushing smirk answered that for him.

“Yeah, I didn’t pick Sherlock as a top, myself.” Greg said conversationally.

John gave him a look. “Top doesn’t mean dom, Greg.” John answered, giving as good as he got. “I noticed you seem to be okay with the idea of sitting down. Does that mean that you’re more of a giver, then?” He gave Greg a pointed look, and Greg flushed.

“Yeah, well…” Greg trailed off, and John grinned again.

“No need to explain to me, mate.” They stood quietly for a while, enjoying the company as the midweek murmur sounded around them. It was hard to believe that not too long ago they’d been commiserating on their poor luck having fallen in love with Sherlock and Mycroft, romance a surely unattainable goal for either of them.

“So, are we going to keep meeting here?” Greg asked as he signaled the bartender for another round. “I mean, there’ll be no more pining, complaining about the sheet, or the suits or anything.”

John snorted. “I’ll still be complaining about plenty, Greg. A new sex life does not mean Sherlock knows anything more about personal space or socially acceptable clothing options.”

“Really?” Greg said, sounding a bit relieved. “Good, ‘cause I think we’ll still have plenty to talk about.” He thought as he sipped his beer. “Surely the personal space thing is alright now, though.”

“In theory, yeah,” John said, “But now it’s like I’ll be updating my blog and he sits in my lap. He’s like a fucking octopus in bed, takes up all the space. I can’t take a shower without company.”

Greg grinned at John. “Who would think you’d be complaining about Sherlock joining you in the shower?”

John’s exasperation melted into a goofy grin, and he looked down at the bar. “Yeah, you’re right.” He cleared his throat and changed the subject. “So, I assume Mycroft is at work?”

Greg nodded. “He’ll be home later, I’ll probably see him then.”

“Home as in his place?”

“Home as in our place, actually.” John almost spit his beer across the bar at Greg’s self-satisfied smirk.

“Your place? Together? Christ, Greg, we’ve only been home four days!”

“His place is nicer than mine.” Greg joked, then cleared his throat. He fiddled with the curly edge of the bar mat, shrugging under John’s scrutiny. “We’re both workaholics with unpredictable hours. It makes sense for us to live in the same place so we can see as much as we can of each other.”

John looked at him thoughtfully. “You love him.” John said with certainty.

“Yeah, I thought we established that ages ago.” Greg replied, confused.

“You’ve told him, and he loves you too.” John added. Hanging around Sherlock made him very good at deducing motives, he’d found.

Greg nodded, flushing a little. “Turns out he does.” His voice was low and the deep fulfillment he felt was clear.

“I’m happy for you, mate.” John told him, and they clinked their glasses together once again.

“What about you and Sherlock?” Greg asked.

“We’re not there yet.” John said. “I think it’s going to be a slow path. I mean, now that he’s discovered sex, he’s a teenager in that respect,” John stopped as Greg held up a hand in protest against too many details, then continued, “but emotionally he’s pretty inexperienced.” He shrugged. “It’s good, though.”

Their conversation drifted to the football they’d missed while they’d been away, and as they finished their last drinks, John extended his hand to Greg, saying officiously, “This meeting of the Holmes appreciation society is officially concluded.”

Greg laughed, gripping John’s hand before pulling him into a bear hug.

 

_12 months later…_

“Bloody hell.” John’s voice was quiet, knowing his voice would carry in the warm night air. Greg nodded fervently.

“Bloody sodding hell, Greg.” Despite the expletives, John was smiling, his face open with wonder and genuine pleasure at Greg’s news. He pulled the other man into a hug, releasing him before opening his mouth again.

“If you say ‘bloody hell’ again, John, you’ll be un-invited as best man.”

John rolled his eyes. “Who else would you ask? Anderson?” Greg’s look said _definitely NOT_.

“Is it really such a surprise, John?” Greg asked as they looked out into the Sussex darkness. Mummy’s birthday was over for another year. The brothers had retired upstairs after cake, but both John and Greg had wandered out to the patio, enjoying the fullness of their stomachs and slight warmth that comes from some very good Scotch.

“I’m only surprised it took so long. At the folly today, I’m guessing?”

Greg nodded, the ghost of a smile as he remembered. “He’s been waiting ‘til we came back this year to do it here.”

“A romantic at heart, then.” John noted, then chuckled.

“What?” Greg asked defensively.

“Must be something in the DNA.” John remarked.

“What?” Greg replied, his wandering attention arrested as he processed John’s words.

“Sherlock and I visited the apple tree today.” John told Greg, his broad grin explaining the rest.

“You too?” Greg’s eyebrows were just about brushing his hairline, and John chuckled as he nodded affirmation.

“Bloody hell!” Greg crowed, pulling John into another hug of celebration.

“We’ve come a long way in twelve months.” John said, and Greg knew he meant both his own relationship with Sherlock, and Greg’s with Mycroft.

“We have indeed.”

“We’ll be brothers, just about.”

“Bloody hell.” Greg echoed John again at the thought. The synchronicity of their lives in the past year really was remarkable. Perhaps a little too remarkable for coincidence…

“Do you think Mycroft and Sherlock…” John asked, trailing off as the idea occurred to him. He looked searchingly at Greg, chewing on his lip as he wondered.

“Nah.” Greg followed his thought but dismissed it. “I know they get along much better these days, but there’s no way they’d agree to that.” They looked at each other, doubt in both pairs of eyes before they broke into matching uneasy chuckles.

“No way.” John said firmly, and they nodded at each other in finality.

“See you tomorrow, then. Are you going to tell Mummy?” Greg asked, turning towards the door.

John nodded. “Birthday present.”

“I’ll bring the tissues.” Greg said wryly.

They made their way back inside, both shaking their heads at the parallel route their lives seemed to be taking.

 

_Meanwhile, inside…_

“Do you think they will be talking about…”

“Undoubtedly. They share a disturbing number of details about our respective relationships, Sherlock.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement with his brother. They stood on the landing of the staircase, knowing they could hear their new fiancés come in through the kitchen from here.

“Mummy will be insufferable tomorrow, you know.”

“I know.” Mycroft’s grin was smug. Sherlock looked at him questioningly, then his brow cleared as he followed his brother’s train of thought. “Only until we inform her of our plans for a double ceremony here, on her birthday next year.”

Mycroft nodded approvingly. They stood in companionable silence for a while, still growing accustomed to the intimacy that had developed in their relationship over the previous year. In the quiet, the distinctive snick of the kitchen door closing carried through the house, and the brothers looked at each other.

“Shall we tell them?” Mycroft murmured. “They did inspire our collusion, after all.”

“I know you and Greg share everything now,” Sherlock replied reprovingly, “but I still have some secrets from John.” Watching as Greg and John stopped at the base of the stairs, arms crossed and eyebrows raised to see the brothers conferring in the darkness, Mycroft could read Greg’s expression.

“Not any more, little brother.” Mycroft said, smiling affectionately as Greg ascended to him. They continued to Mycroft’s room together without another word.

John stopped next to Sherlock, his face amused. “Nice try,” he said, one hand sliding up to sit over Sherlock’s heart. “You and Mycroft can’t scheme behind our backs anymore.”

“I can’t think what you mean.” Sherlock replied airily. His own hand rose to cover John’s own, the strong thrumming of his heart reverberating through them both.

 


	22. Epilogue II - Friday night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in Sussex the night before the double wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's back! Epilogue II, though this will be split into at least two parts because it's really long. Turns out now that the angst is over there's a lot of fun to be had with this AU, so enjoy the new dynamic that's developed between our four favourite boys and their meddling Mummy.

“Do you think we did the right thing?” Mycroft asked Greg as their car pulled into the Sussex house’s driveway.

“Letting your mum do everything? Absolutely.” Greg replied. “It made her happy, and we didn’t have to do anything.”

Mycroft nodded, but Greg could tell he wasn’t convinced. “Come on, we’ve only got to get through the next couple of days and we can go home.”

Accepting Greg’s outstretched hand, Mycroft climbed out of the car. A butler appeared and offered to ensure their luggage was taken inside, which Mycroft accepted calmly as Greg gaped a little. Mycroft looked up at the house, squaring his shoulders as though going into battle.

“Two days?” Mycroft murmured as they waited for the doorbell to be answered.

“Forty-three hours.” Greg confirmed, gratified by the slight twitch of Mycroft’s mouth at his unusual precision.

“Thank you.” Mycroft replied. The door opened, and Mummy appeared, beaming at them both.

“Boys!” She cried, embracing them both, pulling them into the house and chattering about the details of the wedding.

“Mummy,” Mycroft tried, then gave up in the face of flower arrangements and some kind of disaster with the ice sculpture. He shrugged at Greg, who grinned at him, love swelling in his heart at the affection in Mycroft’s eyes.

“Have Sherlock and John arrived?” Greg asked when Mummy paused for breath.

“Not yet, though John called me when they left London.” Mummy assured them.

Mycroft jumped in before she could launch into a detailed explanation of her seating chart. “Gregory and I would like a few moments to refresh ourselves, in that case, Mummy.” He said firmly.

Her expression shifted from slightly offended to flatly disbelieving. “One hour, Mycroft. Drinks on the patio.”

Greg could feel himself blushing as he threw a smile at Mummy and hustled Mycroft from the room, laughter bursting from him as they made their way up the staircase. He stumbled near the landing, knocking into Mycroft, clutching at his waist. It was futile, though and he ended up sitting on the landing, still giggling to himself.

“Gregory,” Mycroft admonished gently, though he was smiling. With a sigh and a final escaped burble, Greg levered himself up from the step. He took Mycroft’s hand and they made their way to Mycroft’s – well, _their_ – bedroom.

“An hour, hey?” Greg muttered as the door closed. Mycroft gave him a severe look, shattering his fragile control and Greg collapsed again onto the bed, giggling. “Oh, God, Mycroft, this is going to be ridiculous, isn’t it?” His hand fluttered weakly as he tried to gesture to the front of the house. “There was a butler out there, where the hell did he come from?”

Mycroft looked exasperatedly at him. “Mummy hired him for the weekend, of course. With so many people she was bound to need some assistance.”

Greg looked amused, having pushed himself upward to lean against the headboard. He sighed contentedly, kicking his shoes off and wriggling stockinged toes. “Your mum does seem pretty stressed about it. I’m so glad we don’t have to worry about any of that.” He beckoned to Mycroft, who had started unpacking his ties. Smiling indulgently, Mycroft padded across the floor, sitting on the bed beside Greg.

“She is more excited than stressed, I believe.” Mycroft murmured, his fingers brushing lightly through the hair at Greg’s temple. “But I am pleased we don’t need to concern ourselves with the minutiae of tomorrow either.” He leaned forward and kissed Greg. The familiar feel and taste made Greg sigh, the sound passing back and forth as each relaxed into the contact. When Mycroft’s hand started sliding up his thigh, Greg smiled, drawing the kiss to a reluctant close.

“I’d really love a shower, if we have time, Myc.” Greg pulled out the nickname Mycroft had only just started to accept. Greg knew it was a big step for Mycroft to allow Greg to shorten his name, and he used it sparingly in recognition of the fact.

“Well that depends, _Grégoire_.” Mycroft purred, clearly distracted from the unpacking by the feel of Greg’s thigh flexing under his fingers. “Were you considering…” he was cut off when Greg kissed him again, pressing his tongue into Mycroft’s mouth as he knew Mycroft liked.

“I was, yes.” Greg replied breathlessly.

+++

“No, Mummy.” Sherlock’s voice was firm, even from upstairs. Greg and Mycroft, just descending after their very pleasant interlude, glanced at each other. Mycroft rolled his eyes, and they joined the quartet standing in the sitting room.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft nodded to his brother, then to the man standing beside him. “John.”

They all greeted each other, Sherlock shooting irritated glances at his mother throughout.

“I’ve just been explaining tonight’s arrangements to your brother.” Mummy jumped in as soon as the pleasantries – such as they were – had concluded. Sherlock’s scowl deepened. John’s face did not change, but Greg could see his knuckles whiten as he gripped Sherlock’s fingers harder.

“What arrangements?” Greg asked.

“Her ridiculous idea that we should not see our respective partners tomorrow until the ceremony.” Sherlock summarised. Greg blinked, flicking a glance at Mycroft, who was inscrutable as usual.

“What do you think, Greg?” Mummy implored him. All eyes landed on Greg at this – Sherlock’s scowl, John’s amused questioning look, Mummy’s silent begging. Father was examining his Scotch, of which Greg sorely wished he had a measure.

“Ahh, well,” Greg blustered, “if you’ve already made the arrangements, Mummy…” Greg knew Sherlock’s strop was inevitable; regardless of the outcome here, he’d find something to get upset about. Greg didn’t care either way, and he’d rather not upset Mummy. It was her birthday weekend, after all. She’d given up the family tradition in favour of this double wedding without a thought, but Greg was still aware the tradition had been superseded. He ignored the daggers Sherlock was shooting at him and focussed on Mummy’s beaming smile instead.

“I knew you’d see reason.” She crooned at Greg. He caught a whiff of something smooth and honeyed, and as she turned to speak to John, Greg caught Father’s eye. He mimed drinking and to his relief Father brought him a measure of the Scotch he’d smelled, which he drank from gratefully. The group drifted apart again, Mummy and Father going to check on another detail for the following day while the brothers and their fiancés stood together.

“It was foolish of you not to assess the details of the arrangement, Greg.” Sherlock sniped at him. Greg raised one eyebrow, inviting him to go on. “You will be sleeping alone, on this last night before you foolishly commit yourself to my corpulent brother.”

“Oi,” Greg muttered, though neither comment held any malice. Sherlock and Mycroft had both mellowed, and this barb was clearly a release for his nerves.

“He’s mainly annoyed because there’s only one guest room,” John offered, entering the conversation for the first time. Greg did not understand, but he heard a murmured, “Ah,” from Mycroft which indicated that as usual, he was one step ahead.

“So?” Greg prompted.

John’s lips twisted into a smirk. “So you’ll stay in your room, I’ll stay in ours, and these two will share the guest room.” It was Greg’s turn to murmur a sound of understanding – the boys would be sharing a room, and presumably a bed, for the night. _What could go wrong,_ he thought sarcastically to himself.

As he was wondering how they’d all avoid each other – given that the guest room was only on the other side of the corridor – Mycroft spoke quietly in his ear. “There will no doubt be a schedule to which we will be expected to adhere, Gregory.” It wasn’t a surprise that Mycroft had deduced his question, and the response made sense. Mummy had demonstrated on their first meeting, and many times since then, that she liked to manipulate and control events to her liking. Given Mycroft’s propensity for the same, Greg did not hold it against her; indeed, he was often impressed at the keenness of her mind. From the look of open hostility on Sherlock’s face, and the tension Greg could feel in Mycroft’s frame, neither of her sons felt the same right now.

“Think of it as a challenge, Myc,” Greg whispered in his ear. “I’m sure you can run the gauntlet if you know I’m at the other end.” Though there was no outward sign he’d heard, Greg felt the tension ease slightly in his partner’s frame. He squeezed Mycroft’s arm, then leaned over to murmur to John, “Tell him it’s a challenge. Surely he’s snuck out of his bedroom for a shag – or something – before.”

John looked at Greg, understanding blooming with a smile on his face. “This could be fun, then.” Greg’s look said, ‘exactly,’ before he stepped back to stand once again with Mycroft. Greg watched Sherlock’s face as John spoke quietly to him. The scowl deepened, then slid off his face to be replaced by the flash of a smirk. As John kept speaking, the smirk broadened until it was positively feral.

“Accepted.” Sherlock said to John without bothering to lower his voice. John shrugged at Greg’s inquisitive look. There was a good chance he didn’t want to know, Greg decided. He settled for finishing his Scotch and asking Sherlock how the plans to set up a colony of bees on the roof of Baker Street were progressing.

 

_Later that night, in the guest room…_

“I assume Greg and John made the same suggestion earlier this evening,” Sherlock said to his brother. They’d both avoided talking about the intensely uncomfortable fact that there was only one bed, albeit a huge one. It was unlikely that Sherlock would sleep anyway, given his heightened state of nerves.

“They did.” Mycroft confirmed. He was studying the schedule Mummy had handed him earlier, outlining the times he and Sherlock were free to use the downstairs common areas, including the kitchen. Breakfast and lunch would be available for an hour each; John and Greg would no doubt have their own window in which they were permitted to eat.

“I suspect Mummy will be greatly disappointed if she finds us sneaking around like schoolboys in the night, Sherlock,” Mycroft told his younger brother.

Sherlock waited until Mycroft was looking at him before he replied, “You’ll have to make sure you’re not caught, then. Mind the loose floorboard-“

“Yes, two paces up from my bedroom, thank you.” Mycroft interrupted.

“I hope you told Gregory about that one.” Sherlock smirked.

“You do know his name, then.” Mycroft replied, ignoring the dig.

“Of course I do.” Sherlock replied. Mycroft waited, Sherlock sighing before adding, “Since it’s now unlikely he’ll come to his senses and run screaming, I suppose he’s family now.” There was an almost affectionate tone to the jibe, which had become a part of their verbal sparring over the last two years. The first moments had been at here at the house, realising the value of the relationships that had begun to bloom between their respective partners; once they had both decided to propose, the last of the venom had faded completely from their words. Sherlock still largely ignored Mycroft, though they’d reached an arrangement with the hidden cameras (none in the bedroom, and Mycroft now delegated the surveillance, lest he inadvertently see his brother and John in an unexpectedly compromising position on the sofa). Mycroft, for his part, no longer kidnapped John, and had restricted his visits to Baker Street to once a week with advanced notice and good cause. The shift in their dynamic had been subtle to many people, but to the brothers it was significant after so many years of genuine hostility.

It did not, however, stretch to sharing a bed, no matter how big.

Sherlock’s phone buzzed and he grabbed it. “This is the...oh, I see Greg sent you a copy.” He opened the attachment John had sent him, examining the schedule for his and Greg’s meals and free time. There was silence for a moment before Sherlock snapped his phone shut and made for the door. “Don’t wait up, brother.”

“Mummy is likely to come and wish us goodnight, Sherlock,” Mycroft warned. “I suggest remaining here until we know they have retired.”

Sherlock paused, hand on the doorknob. “And how…ah. Bugging the staircase, Mycroft? A step above even your usual level of surveillance.”

“Needs must, brother mine.” Mycroft smirked.

“I’ll risk it.” Sherlock replied, slipping out the door with a sardonic wink at his brother.

 

_Meanwhile in John’s room…_

John ran his hands through his hair, finger digging into his scalp. Less than a day and he’d be a married man. Unbelievable. Despite the Scotch before dinner, wine at dinner and brandy afterwards, John was itching for a beer. It felt like a celebratory evening, and beer was his drink of choice, after all.

As though bidden, there was a furtive knock at the door. Not Sherlock, who would have barged in, John thought, then grinned as he saw Greg looking a little guilty, a pair of beers in hand.

“Nightcap?” he asked quietly, looking furtively down the hall.

“Perfect, mate.” John replied, taking one of the bottles as Greg passed into the room. “No need to look guilty, though, it’s not the two of us she’s trying to keep apart.”

Greg grinned at that. They opened their bottles, murmured ‘cheers’, and drank deeply. Greg settled on the floor, back to the bed as John sat opposite, braced against the wall.

“Did Sherlock ever tell you,” Greg asked, “about how they both thought you and I might be having it off that morning we pretended to be hung over?” No answer was necessary, John’s shocked look and wide eyes making it clear that he’d never heard about this. Greg continued, “If you remember, Mummy made us stay upstairs so she could talk to the boys without us.” John nodded, recalling the angst of having to tell Sherlock the story he believed would drive the detective away from him forever. “Our acting must be terrible, they saw through us. Although I was feeling pretty seedy,” Greg added as an afterthought. “Mycroft told me about their conversation.” Greg went on. “They knew we were faking but didn’t know why. Mycroft’s enormous, ridiculous brain decided that you and I must clearly be looking to shag each other’s brains out without them around.” John snorted at this frankly ludicrous idea.

“Thanks mate,” Greg said in mock offence.

“Pretty sure that’s never gonna happen,” John said amusedly. “You’re hardly my type, and given tall, skinny and very well dressed seems to be yours, I don’t think I stand a chance either.”

Greg chuckled at this assessment. “Exactly. Mummy basically told them how stupid they were being, made them agree to take us for walks in the garden and reminded them that we are upstanding citizens without a deceptive bone in our bodies, so they should be nice to us.”

“And they did it.” John stated, remembering the rest of that afternoon.

“Kind of, yeah. I mean, you’ve met Mummy.” Greg said.

“Exactly.” John replied. Mummy had continued to demonstrate her ability to read them all, and John wouldn’t dare underestimate her skill at manipulating her sons. They sat in contemplative silence for a few moments, Greg picking at the label on his beer bottle. Drinking beer and talking about the Holmes brothers, John thought. Circle of life and all that.

“Did Mycroft tell you how he convinced Sherlock not to run off after I’d told him about The Plan?” John asked into the quiet.

“No,” Greg replied. “I was a bit surprised at that, actually. I mean, they’re closer now, have you seen how…” he trailed off, the alcohol making descriptions difficult.

“Yeah,” John replied, knowing what Greg meant. They had seen the subtle changes in their respective Holmes and watched with fascination as the dynamic had shifted slowly and sometimes haltingly over the past two years. It had been the subject of much discussion at their still regular meetings at the pub.

“But at the time,” Greg furthered, “I didn’t think Mycroft would be able to convince his brother of anything.”

“When they were children, or at least Sherlock was a child,” John said slowly, “Mycroft was the only one that could pull him out of his mind palace. I mean it wasn’t a mind palace then, just a kind of thinking fugue state, really, but Mycroft was the only one. They were really close.” John looked down at his beer, almost empty now. “I think they’re both really happy it’s come back around.”

“Mycroft loves his brother, I can see it in the way he talks about him.” Greg agreed. “But I didn’t realise they’d been like that as children.”

“It’s still a bit surreal, isn’t it?” John said.

“It will never not be surreal, mate.” Greg told him. “Even when we’re oldies and they’re pinching each other’s reading glasses and shit.” They both chuckled at this and were still grinning when the door burst open and Sherlock slid in, shutting the door somehow quickly and soundlessly. Twin curses had sounded at the intrusion and they now stood gaping at Sherlock.

“Get out, Greg, we’re going to shag.” Sherlock said brusquely. John grinned widely, waving Greg off, eyes pinned to Sherlock.

“Charming as usual, Sherlock.” Greg told him, picking up his dropped bottle, giving John a half salute and leaving the room. He could hear Sherlock’s voice drop low and rumbling before he even had the door closed. No way he needed to hear that, brother-in-law-to-be or not.

 

_Meanwhile downstairs…_

“…and the hor d'oeuvres, Timothy, I’m just not sure…”

“Wanda.” He spoke gently, but it was so unusual for him to interrupt that she stopped, staring blankly at him. Timothy Holmes put his hand over his wife’s, a reassuring smile on his face. “It will be perfect. Our sons are going to be happy. All of our sons.” He looked deeply satisfied at this pronouncement. Patting her hand, he said, “We should retire. Plenty of noise on the stairs, mind, give them a sporting chance to get back to their rooms before you stop in to say goodnight.”

Wanda visibly relaxed at her husband’s words. “Of course. They won’t even notice the hor d’oeuvres, will they?”

“Probably not.” He conceded, eyes twinkling. “But I will, and so will everyone else. They’ll know what a wonderful job you’ve done.”

“Now, Timothy, no need to patronise me.”

“Of course not, my dear.” Timothy said innocently. Wanda chuckled and swatted him on the arm before they started up the stairs, her prattle about alternative locations for the string ensemble drifting up ahead.

 

_In the guest room…_

Mycroft turned as the door opened, Greg’s body slipping through the gap before the door closed again.

“Sherlock kicked me out of John’s room,” Greg explained, holding up his beer bottle. It dropped to the floor as he and Mycroft crossed the room towards each other, no words needed as they kissed hard, hands roaming and gripping and pressing as though they hadn’t made love constantly in the days leading up to their trip.

“Missed you,” Greg gasped as Mycroft’s fingers dug hard into the muscle of his arse. He groaned, hips pushing forward, seeking the friction of Mycroft’s answering erection. For the millionth time he was grateful they were almost the same height – frottage was much easier when you didn’t have to adjust for height. They froze for a moment, the arousal overwhelming, before everything slowed as they lost themselves in the familiar sound and smell of the other. As their hips rocked together, mouths followed in an answering rhythm, slow and intimate. This was about reconnecting after what felt like an age apart – it was rare that they spent so much of their time together with other people. Mycroft had made a good decision suggesting they live together so soon. He’d been right, they were so busy that even the few moments in the morning, when Greg was half asleep and Mycroft dressing for an early meeting, were precious, and sometimes the only time they had with each other. Here, they couldn’t be as tactile as they usually were, cocooned in their flat in Kensington. It had been slightly torturous, Greg thought, though this was a pretty good reward for their mutual patience.

As Greg was wondering if they should stay here or shuffle over to the bed (he had ideas, so many ideas…), Mycroft’s phone made a distinctive sound. It was like a taser, Greg thought dazedly as Mycroft jumped away, eyes wide.

“Mummy’s coming.” Mycroft said breathlessly, propelling Greg to the door. He pushed a still confused Greg into the corridor, hissed, “Get Sherlock!” and slammed it again. Greg blinked at the door until his lust-addled brain caught up. Eyes wide, he strode over and opened John and Sherlock’s door, sticking his head in with eyes closed to pass the message along. Not staying to check they’d heard, Greg opted for self-preservation, quashing a hysterical giggle at the sounds of Mummy’s voice drifting up the stairs. As he turned to close his door, Greg glanced over, seeing Sherlock bolt across the hall, one hand holding his trousers up, cheeks flushed, hair wild. He crashed into the guest room as Greg eased his own door closed. Greg felt a pout forming as he realised he hadn’t kissed Mycroft goodnight. For once, the sturdy construction of the house was a hindrance – how was he supposed to know when he could go back and see Mycroft?

 

_Meanwhile, at the top of the stairs…_

Mummy and Father surveyed the silent hall. The sound of a door slamming had carried, stopping Mummy’s speech in its tracks. Now, they looked at each other, amusement on their faces.

“Do you think I should actually bid our sons goodnight?” She asked.

He gave her a Look. “Be nice to them, Wanda. Let them have their subterfuge.”

“I am being nice. I gave them the perfect parameters to think they’re fooling me. They can be the naughty schoolboys I know they were not as young boys.” Wanda replied. “Very well. The breakfast conversation should be interesting, at any rate.”

 

_Meanwhile, in the guest room, Sherlock and John’s room, and Mycroft and Greg’s room…_

Three rooms.

Four sets of held breath.

Four unsatisfied libidos.

One pair of brothers studiously avoiding eye contact.

 

_Then, in the corridor…_

A door opened. John’s head poked out, like a hedgehog checking for predators before he tiptoed, open shirt flapping, to knock on the guest room door. Sherlock opened it, grabbed John and yanked him inside. Seconds later, Mycroft was forcibly ejected. The door closed quietly.

Mycroft’s expression was affronted before it changed as he regarded his own bedroom door. Looking guiltily in the direction of the master bedroom, he tiptoed across to knock on his own bedroom door. Greg opened it, grinned, and yanked a smiling Mycroft inside, inadvertently slamming the door behind him.

 

_Four minutes later…_

“I’ll just go and get my glasses, Timothy.” Mummy’s voice rang from the corridor into the master bedroom where her husband still lay. “Then I’ll stop in for a goodnight to the boys.” A pause. “Yes, all of them, Greg and John are family now.”

She padded down the stairs, smiling to herself as she passed the small dot on the banister. Mycroft should know better than to try and bug their house – didn’t he remember the security measures she put in place before every major event they hosted? Knowledge was power, though, and she could use this to her advantage. Humming, Wanda Holmes started slowly up the stairs again.

 

_Meanwhile…_

Sherlock and John, both looking the worse for wear, stumbled out of the guest bedroom. John looked amused but frustrated, Sherlock murderous. Sherlock tried to shove John across to their room, but John dragged him back for one last messy, tongue heavy kiss.

“She’s coming, John!” Sherlock hissed, pulling away.

“Glad someone is,” John grumbled. He caught Sherlock’s eye and they both dissolved into giggles, shushing each other as John scrambled back to his room. Sherlock watched the door close before glancing across, rolling his eyes and returning to the guest room.

 

_Thirty seconds later…_

Greg and Mycroft stumbled out of their bedroom, only the tails of his shirt covering Greg’s modesty. Mycroft pushed him back inside but he had hold of Mycroft’s lapels, using them to plant one last filthy wet kiss on his fiancé’s mouth. Mycroft moaned, then pushed away.

“Glad he texted and didn’t stick his head in the door,” Greg panted, grinning at Mycroft.

“Thank you for that mental im-” Mycroft replied, before the sound of Mummy’s humming came up the stairs. He turned as Greg shoved him towards the guest room.

Two doors slammed as one.

Mummy smiled to herself, turning towards the minor bedrooms.

 

_In the guest bedroom…_

Mycroft and Sherlock once again declined to look each other in the eye. Given their dishevelled states and the increasing likelihood that neither would be satisfied tonight, the mood was more irritable than anything. The knock on the door soured the mood further, even though it was expected.

“Boys?” She called through the panelled door.

“We’re not decent, Mummy.” Sherlock replied, trying hard to normalise his ragged breathing. They both knew Mummy would see instantly what they’d been up to; given that it was well past midnight and so officially their wedding day, she would not approve.

“Very well. I thought I heard the loose floorboard squeak, that’s all. You’ll need your sleep, remember. Big day tomorrow.” Her voice came through the door.

Without thinking, Sherlock turned to Mycroft and rolled his eyes in solidarity. Mycroft raised one eyebrow in response. _Best if she hears both of us in here_ , they agreed.

“Thank you, Mummy. Sleep well.” Mycroft replied.

They held their breath until she called, “Goodnight.” Sherlock felt himself relax and shot another look at his brother. Neither knew who laughed first, but soon they were shushing each other’s giggles, the absurdity of the whole situation finally striking them.

“Do you think she’ll visit John and Greg?” Sherlock managed. The stricken look on his brother’s face at the idea made him start again, doubling over at the horror Mycroft clearly felt.

“She’s really enjoying this, isn’t she?” Mycroft said finally, when he’d pulled himself together. He knew, and was sure his brother knew, that Mummy had set this up. She would have been disappointed if they hadn’t behaved like schoolboys escaping a curfew. Mycroft knew how devious his mother could be, but he was only just beginning to appreciate how much thought she put into her schemes to give her sons what she thought they needed.

“With any luck we shall be able to use this as a birthday present substitute for many years.” Sherlock agreed, texting as he spoke.

“Greg will be here in six minutes. Five o’clock we switch back.” Sherlock told his brother, who merely nodded. They waited four minutes, before Sherlock stood.  “Sleep well, brother.” he smirked, before ducking out the door once more.

 

_In the master bedroom…_

“All done?” Timothy murmured when his wife closed their door after herself.

“Done.” She said. “If I know them, and I do, of course, they’ll be across the hall in six minutes.” Wanda shed her dressing gown and climbed into bed next to her husband. They turn off the lights and sought each other, cuddling as always in the darkness.

“No early morning visits, or breakfasts in bed, either.” Timothy’s voice was quiet in the darkness, his tone mild.

“Well, I had been thinking…” She trailed off.

“Isn’t the point to let them think they’ve outplayed you?” Timothy pointed out. “That will hardly work if you catch them in the act, so to speak.”

“Oh, very well,” Wanda agreed, smiling into her husband’s chest. He always thought he’d convinced her of his perspective.

Timothy felt her smile. She always wanted him to feel like he’d convinced her. How very well she knew him. If only his sons would know so many years of happiness, they would be very lucky men.


	23. Epilogue II - Saturday (Wedding Day)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the wedding day.

John yawned, stretching as he descended the stairs. Waking at five AM, kissing Sherlock then dropping back to sleep was not that great for his circadian rhythm. He’d have slept longer except that his breakfast window was 8-9, and there was no further option for food until lunch at 1pm. More sleep was certainly on the cards between breakfast and lunch; he and Sherlock had dozed but not really slept all night. They’d been careful not to leave any visible marks, but John still felt a self-conscious flush warm his cheeks as he entered the kitchen to see Mummy sitting at the bench.

“Good morning, John dear,” she greeted him.

“Good morning, Mummy,” he replied, stooping to kiss her cheek.

“Did you sleep well?” She asked, and he could have sworn there was a knowing glint in her eye.

“Not really,” he admitted. “Nerves, you know.”

“Of course.” Her gaze shifted behind him, and she added, “I’d guess Greg had the same problem. Poor sleep, Greg?”

The new arrival nodded, yawning a thank you for the coffee John thrust into his hand. John poured himself another mug and sank into a seat.

“Now what can I get you both for breakfast?” Mummy asked. “Anna is outside, preparing the food for later, she’ll make whatever you’d like.”

Greg and John looked at each other and shrugged, as they often did when faced with a slightly overwhelming Holmes moment. None of the Holmes’ seemed to realise how their casual mentions of trips abroad, helicopters and meeting the Queen compared to the middle class upbringing both John and Greg had experienced. It wasn’t malicious; they simply lived in a different social level.

“A full English would be great,” John said, and Greg hastened to agree.

“Very well, I’ll just go and let her know.” Mummy waved off the boys as they both offered to do the errand for her. “No, no, I want to ask her about the hor d'oeuvres, too.” She slipped out through the back door and across the patio. Only when she was gone from view did John and Greg look at one another again.

“More sleep before lunch?” John asked.

Greg groaned. “No details mate, but I didn’t sleep a second last night.”

“Me either.” John agreed. They drank deeply from their coffee in silence until John said quietly, “Can you believe…”

“Nope.” Greg responded.

“Do you know what Mycroft’s wearing?” John asked.

Greg shook his head. “Something from his tailor, I suppose.” He smirked. “That bloody man won’t be threatened, bribed or persuaded to give up Mycroft’s secrets.”

“And you tried all three, didn’t you?” John grinned.

“Yes I did.” Greg confirmed without shame.

“Did you get something new, then?” John asked. At Greg’s exasperated look, he added, “What?”

“You must have been drunker than I thought.” Greg told him. When John still looked blankly at him, Greg prompted, “We talked at the pub, remember?”

John furrowed his brow until the memory finally came back to him. It was a little fuzzy but…”Oh, yeah!” he said. He turned his eyes to an impatient Greg and grinned. “They’ll flip.”

“That’s if they notice.”

John snorted. “Oh come on, you know they will. How many sets of tails do you own, Greg?”

Greg had to concede the point – if anyone would notice their careful suit selection, it was Mycroft and Sherlock.

“Seen Father yet?” John asked.

“No. I barely made it down here in a straight line.” Greg replied, taking another hit from his coffee.

“Come 4 o’clock you’d better be more with it.” John advised him. They watched as Mummy and Anna appeared, each bearing a tray and a beaming smile. “Best eat for England now and sleep through lunch.”

Greg agreed, and they turned and smiled thanks to the women bringing their breakfasts.

“Oh, I remember the last time we all sat down here together,” Mummy said affectionately as Greg and John fell on their breakfasts with gusto. “That was the morning I helped you two straighten out the mess you’d made, do you remember?”

“Er, yes.” John said through a mouth of eggs. That wasn’t the exact way he’d put it, but close enough.

“You were all so transparent when you arrived,” Mummy continued, “It was so exciting. Such a wonderful birthday! Figuring out who and what was really happening, watching you all bumble through. Even my boys, you know, social interaction is not really their forte.”

Greg nodded, not sure he could trust himself to speak. Was Mummy really taking all the credit for her sons’ successful relationships?

“Mycroft did alright,” Greg tried to defend his absent fiancé. “The walk to the folly was good.”

John kept his eyes on his bacon. He remembered Greg telling him about the folly, and ‘good’ was apparently not the word for it, especially on their subsequent visits. His own memories of that day, with Sherlock at the apple tree, and their own continued visits made his cheeks flush.

“Oh yes, I’m so glad I suggested the picnic that day,” Mummy went on, blithely ignoring the now incredulous looks on both men’s faces. “They always loved those spots, the folly and the apple tree.” Her face was lost in memory, so John risked a glance at Greg.

They exchanged significant looks, which amounted to the following exchange.

“What the fuck?”

“I know. Just let her.”

“But…”

“I am too tired and it doesn’t matter.”

“Soft.”

“Fuck off.”

“Bastard.”

Both were grinning by the time they were done. John stood to get more coffee, pouring it with abandon into their mugs. He was going to sleep regardless of how much coffee he had, so he might as well enjoy the excellent blend Mummy always had on hand.

“Do you have any plans between now and lunch?” Mummy asked them now.

“Sleep.” They answered in unison, and Mummy smiled at them affectionately.

“Of course, dears. You’ll need your sleep. I doubt you’ll all be able to keep hands off after the ceremony!” With that slightly mortifying statement, Mummy rose, excusing herself to speak to the ice sculptor who had arrived while she had been speaking to Anna.

Now alone in the kitchen, John and Greg finished eating in silence.

“Fuck.” Greg said quietly.

“I know.” There was no need for them to communicate in glances now. John yawned despite the coffee. He clapped on hand on Greg’s shoulder and stood up. “Bed, mate. You too, I should think.”

Greg’s watch beeped at that moment, signalling the end of their allocated breakfast time. “Better head off, anyway.” Greg said. They made their way upstairs, only to be accosted at the top by Mycroft and Sherlock. Each brother pulled their respective betrothed into a doorway, ignoring the other.

“Mycroft!” Greg gasped, as a hot mouth descended on his throat.

“You’d better get some rest, _Gregoire_ ,” Mycroft growled in between licks and nibbles. “Because I plan on licking every. Single. Centimetre. Of your body tonight, slowly and softly, until you come all over me.”

Greg groaned at the idea, so loud Mycroft clamped one hand over his mouth to muffled the sound. “Tonight you’ll have to be quieter,” he murmured into Greg’s ear, reaching out to trace the curl of his ear with a wet tongue, “but tomorrow night I’m going to bend you over our couch and fuck you until you scream my name.” He removed his hand, planted a hot kiss on Greg’s mouth, then turned and walked down the stairs, accompanied by his brother. Greg was left speechless and panting against the door.

 

_Meanwhile, in the next doorway down…_

Sherlock pressed John against the door with his body, fingers encircling the soldier’s wrists. “I have an experiment for this evening, John. It’s going to be long,” he pressed his groin into John’s stomach, “hard,” a thigh ground against John’s groin, eliciting a gasp, “and very, very enjoyable. So get some more rest.”

If Sherlock had been expecting John to quiver like a jelly at this pronouncement, he was sorely mistaken.

“I’d make a suggestion myself,” John said with just a hint of Captain Watson, “but that would give you some idea of what I had planned. So however good you think I’m going to feel after you’re done, you’d better have some reserves, because I am going to make you” he wrenched free, one hand cupping Sherlock’s arse, encouraging him to grind harder against John’s now straining erection, “come” he thrust against Sherlock, “harder” another thrust, “and longer” one last thrust, “than ever.” He smirked as the smug look dropped from Sherlock’s face, replaced by a panting look of pure lust. Without a word, Sherlock turned and strode down the hall to the stairs.

With the Holmes brothers gone, John and Greg exchanged looks. Neither needed to make a pointed glance to see that the other was aroused – that had clearly been the intention, planned or otherwise, of the brothers.

“Shower first, I think.” John said.

Greg grinned. “Cold?”

“Bloody arctic.” John muttered, shaking his head.

They both retired to their respective rooms, hoping for at least a little rest before the wedding.

+++

“Sherlock.”

“Mycroft.”

Neither brother had greeted the other on the stairs, both still wrangling their brains back online after the encounters upstairs. The few hours rest after returning to the guest room had restored them and Sherlock in particular had been restless in the extreme once breakfast time rolled around. It was early, but Mycroft had made no objection, wanting to see Greg as much as Sherlock had wanted to see John. Meeting in the hall had been sheer coincidence; they had both acted at the same moment, unplanned but coordinated. Now, standing in the kitchen, Mycroft made a pot of tea while each still paced their mind palace.

“Boys!” Mummy entered with Anna, each bearing a tray. “I decided on your breakfast, you must be starving.” When the trays had been deposited, she sat, looking at each fondly. “Greg and John told me they didn’t sleep well.” The words hung in the air until she clarified, “Nerves.”

“Ah yes.” Mycroft replied. Sherlock sniffed and lifted the cloche on his tray. Two bacon butties complete with white bread and tomato sauce and a plate of chocolate biscuits. He looked puzzled.

“John told me that when you won’t eat, he makes bacon sandwiches – butties.” Mummy explained, enunciating the last word carefully as one would a foreign word. Sherlock stared at her for a long moment before nodding. He picked up the sandwich and began to eat.

“Mycroft, you need to eat too,” Mummy reminded him gently.

 With a sigh, he removed the cloche of his own breakfast, the relief sweeping through him at the sight not of bacon butties, but his usual cereal, fruit and yogurt. “Greg.” He murmured affectionately. “Thank you, Mummy.” Mycroft said politely, though his eyes spoke with far more affection.

“Of course, Mycroft.” Mummy replied. She watched her boys eat for a few moments before saying, “I never thought we’d see this day.” Sherlock frowned, mouth full of bacon. Mummy continued, “Your wedding day, Sherlock. You and Mycroft were never interested, I thought. And I tried so hard to prompt you to bring someone home with you.”

“With all the hysterical weeping?” Sherlock couldn’t help saying. Mycroft sent him a warning look, which Sherlock ignored.

“Yes, Sherlock, of course.” Mummy answered him serenely. “And it was a good thing I did, or neither of you would ever had figured out what good men you already had in your lives!” After that outburst she settled again, adding more calmly, “Although it was a good thing I was here, guiding things.” Mummy shook her head. “Imagine if you’d never taken that picnic to the folly, Mycroft, or to the apple tree, Sherlock!” Losing herself again in the memories of her brilliance, Mummy’s gaze became unfocussed. Sherlock, having finished a whole sandwich and started on the biscuits, looked at his brother. Mycroft was studiously avoiding him.

“Biscuit, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked innocently, offering one over.

“No thank you, brother.” Mycroft replied.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows then bit into it, murmuring, “Suit yourself.”

Both men suppressed a smile at the familiar exchange, now simply a ritual rather than a hostile event targeting Mycroft’s waistline.

“Speaking of suits, did you take my suggestion, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked. “My tailor does take a more traditional approach that the one you favour.”

“Of course not, Mycroft.” Sherlock replied easily. “I would hate for John not to recognise me in one of your baggy monstrosities.”

“Just because my suits are not fitted to within an inch of my skin,” Mycroft replied smoothly, but Sherlock interrupted him.

“Just because _my_ suits are not reminiscent of an elephant skin,” Sherlock replied. They stared at each other for a moment, as though daring the other to speak again. It was anticipatory but not tense, lacking the bite of their younger days.

“Assuming both John and Greg have retired to their rooms, Mummy,” Sherlock cut across her meandering story, “I’d like to visit the bees before lunch.”

“Certainly,” Mummy told him. “If you could be back inside before their lunch at 1pm, or stay out of sight until yours at 2pm. As you like.” Sherlock nodded to his family before striding out the door and across the patio towards the bees.

“He’s so different, with John.” Mummy mused.

“And yet exactly the same, I would suggest.” Mycroft murmured.

Mummy’s sharp eyes settled on her eldest son. “I am so happy for you, Mycroft.” She said softly.

“As am I, Mummy,” he replied quietly, meeting her eyes. When he stood to retire for a rest, Mycroft kissed his mother, both their eyes bearing unshed tears which neither mentioned.

+++

John jumped, dropped the length of bow tie he was holding, and swore.

“What the…Greg?” He’d assumed it was Sherlock, perhaps looking for a last snog before the ceremony in fifteen short minutes. Instead Greg stood in front of him, dressed and ready to go.

“Still looks good on you.” John told him, admiring the suit. He held up the ends of his still untied bowtie. “Any tips? I’m rubbish at these.”

Greg grinned and plucked at his own, revealing the elastic holding it on. “Bet you wish you had one of these.” He smirked.

John gaped at him. “You cheated!” Something flew at him and he caught it reflexively – a small box.

“Happy wedding or whatever.” Greg told him. John opened the box to see a pre-tied bow-tie of his own. It was two lengths tied perfectly, with a length of elastic connecting the back.

“You’re a lifesaver.” John breathed. He chucked the regular tie away, tugging the new one over his head and under his collar. “Much better,” he said to his reflection.

“Does Mycroft know you’re wearing one of these?” John asked, adjusting his collar.

Greg snorted. “No. I’m sure he’ll find out later, but I’m not risking it until after the ceremony.”

John grinned. “I can see elastic ties being a dealbreaker for him.” He turned to the mirror.

“We look alright, for a pair of penguins marrying up.” Greg told John, clapping a hand on his shoulder as they surveyed their reflections.

“That we do,” John replied. He offered his hand to Greg, who batted it away and pulled him into a hug instead.

“Bloody hell,” John told him, “I’m getting married.”

“Me too, mate, me too.” Greg said. “Christ, have you got your ring?”

John patted his pocket. “Yep. You?”

Greg smirked. “Mycroft insisted on keeping them both. I lose my keys a lot and he said this is too important to risk me dropping it down a drain or something.”

“It’s starting.” John warned him in mock seriousness. “Next thing he’ll be telling you how to dress, how to order your socks…”

“Does Sherlock do that too?” Greg asked, delighted. “Mycroft actually has a-“

“-sock index.” They finished in unison.

“That he does.” John told his friend. “We’d better go. Don’t want to keep the grooms waiting.”

Greg swallowed hard. He nodded nervously.

John opened the door but jumped back when the space was filled with two bodies – Sherlock and Mycroft. All four of them froze, before Sherlock gravitated to John, allowing Mycroft past to speak to Greg.

Four pairs of eyes roved greedily over four bodies.

Four backs straightened under the scrutiny, showing off four tuxedos to best advantage.

Four mouths went dry.

“I recognise that tuxedo,” Sherlock told John, ignoring his brother and Greg.

“I believe that’s the same tuxedo…” Mycroft said, his words heard only by Greg.

“It’s the same one,” John and Greg both replied at the same time.

Four hearts beat faster.

“Yours is new?” Greg asked Mycroft.

“You’ve been back to that other tailor.” John said with certainty.

“It’s new.” Sherlock and Mycroft answered in unison, though neither heard the other.

When a few moments had passed, and four pairs of eyes had said everything and nothing, John took a deep breath. “Shall we go, then?”

He and Sherlock intertwined their fingers, oblivious to Mycroft and Greg doing the same.

Four deep breaths.

Four hands squeezing reassurance and love.

+++

  
“I, William Sherlock Scott Holmes…”

“…John Hamish Watson…”

“…Mycroft St. John Timothy Holmes…”

“…Gregory Andrew Lestrade…”

“…to have and to hold…”

“…for richer and for poorer…”

“…in sickness and in health…”

“…until death us do part.”

“I now pronounce _you_ married as husbands, and _you_ married as husbands.”

“You may kiss the groom.”

 

Nobody remembers all of their wedding vows, not even the Holmes brothers.

John remembered the exact colour of Sherlock’s eyes before his brand new husband bent and kissed him softly, like he was a precious gift.

Sherlock remembered how John’s voice trembled as he repeated, “until death us do part.”

Greg remembered how Mycroft’s hands shook as he guided the ring onto Greg’s finger, and the frown as it caught on his knuckle.

Mycroft remembered how Greg tasted of shared toothpaste and cheap beer and wondered if he’d ever tell Greg he knew about the beer.

 

_At the reception…_

“May I present Mr. and Mr. Holmes-Watson, and Mr. and Mr. Holmes-Lestrade!”

Mummy found Sherlock and John first, hidden behind a pot plant. They were sitting side by side on a bench seat, John kissing Sherlock’s knuckles, thumb rubbing over the new ring that sat on his third finger.

“Really, boys,” she began, then softened as their happy faces looked up at her. “Make sure you eat something, the hor d'oeuvres are excellent.”

She left them still canoodling and went in search of Mycroft and Greg. Skirting the ice sculpture she spied her older son by the cake table, half hidden from the room by the enormous cake. Mummy opened her mouth to speak but found herself watching the pair, so wrapped up in each other they hadn’t even noticed they were being observed. The affection between them as they fed cake to each other, sharing jokes and snippets of conversation, was palpable and she couldn’t bring herself to interrupt.

A little discontent, Wanda found herself sitting back at her seat beside her husband.

“Did you find them?” Timothy asked. He took one look at her face and knew the answer before she spoke.

“Yes, but I didn’t want to interrupt.” She sighed.

“They are happy.” Timothy said.

“Yes.”

“They will visit far more often, now.”

“That is true.”

“And if you’re lucky…grandchildren.”

Wanda shot her husband a Look at that. “Don’t patronise me, Timothy.”

“Of course, dear.” He smiled to himself as his wife turned to listen to the woman next to her, gushing about the wonderful ice sculpture, and where had she found these delicious hor d’oeuvres? Over the past two years it seemed that all the members of their little family had demonstrated their skill at manipulating each other to get what they wanted. All Timothy wanted was for them to be happy – and it seemed, they’d managed that all by themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that's all folks! No further plans for this AU. I hope you liked the Epilogues, the wedding trip in particular was a lot of fun to write. Thank you once again if you've read and followed this, and especially if you're reading this because you're subscribed to the story or me! I appreciate your support and comments more than I can say.  
> <3


	24. So that's why...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought about this while writing the second epilogue, and I giggled for ages. It didn’t fit into the flow of the story, though, so I almost forgot about it – until mindthegap1980 asked why John and Sherlock were announced as ‘Mr. and Mr.’ rather than ‘Dr. and Mr.’ This, my friends, is why.

“I assume Mycroft noticed,” John asked, trailing his fingers over his husband’s chest.

“Of course,” Sherlock rumbled, undoing another couple of buttons of his wedding shirt. John took the hint, his fingers idly exploring the newly exposed skin.

“What did he say?” John asked. The guests had long gone and this pair of new husbands was sitting in the garden near the beehives, enjoying the cool night air and quiet solitude. John had seen Greg and Mycroft heading for the other side of garden, matching secret smiles on their faces.

“Something snide. I ignored it.” Sherlock said in a lofty tone. When John didn’t comment, he prompted, “Did you hear me John? I ignored it.”

“I heard you. You promised to ignore him today, so I’m not going to congratulate you on it.” Sherlock made a slightly offended little sound, which John banished with a quick kiss to his sternum.

“I assume you’ve told Greg the story.” Sherlock stated.

“No,” John replied. “I don’t even know if he noticed. But I do know if I tell him, he’ll tell Mycroft, and you don’t want Mycroft to know.” He felt Sherlock stiffen momentarily before relaxing.

“You’d keep that from Greg so that Mycroft doesn’t find out?” Sherlock asked, confusion lacing his voice. “I didn’t think you cared if Mycroft knew.”

“ _I_ don’t, really,” John replied easily. “But you do.” He turned to Sherlock when there was no reply. Seeing the bitten lower lip and slight frown, John explained, “Of course I’m doing it for you. You’re my husband. Even before that, I’d put you before Greg if it came down to it.” He watched the confusion morph into uncertainty until Sherlock had searched his face. John was getting used to this now; Sherlock’s need to examine his expression, especially in such emotional declarations. As long as he was patient, Sherlock would eventually see that he meant what he said. It was a slow process, but it was getting shorter as Sherlock’s confidence grew.

“Okay.” Sherlock replied finally.

The mood shifted, becoming more serious, which John was not really in the mood for. “Do you remember that conversation?”

Sherlock snorted. “Hardly a conversation, John.”

“We started out talking,” John protested, though he was smiling. They were teasing each other now, the lazy comfortable banter of two people who know each other so well.

“Not for long.” Sherlock replied. “As I recall, you wanted me to go first.”

“You should have gone first,” John said stubbornly. “Who cares about tradition?”

“I do, for one,” Sherlock replied dryly. “The correct order is Doctor first, Mister or Missus second.”

“But why should I come first?” John objected, grinning at the old argument. “You always come first.”

“Not always,” Sherlock protested, though John could hear that he was enjoying the battle as much as John. “Quite often it’s you, as I believe I made clear.”

“With pie charts and a host of data tables,” John snorted, remembering how he’d howled with laughter at the effort Sherlock had put into his task. It had taken hours before Sherlock would even look at him again.

“Well, you wouldn’t accept my evidence, so there really was no choice,” Sherlock replied in satisfaction. John hummed at his own memories of the afternoon. The both remembered how the heated conversation had become heated in other ways quite quickly.

“Yes, a competition to see who comes first. Loser to be named first when we are announced as husbands. How classically dignified,” Sherlock recalled, though the smile on his face belied the dismissive words.

“I still maintain that you lost,” John groused good-naturedly. “You shot first, as I recall.”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock allowed. “But we agreed in our previous argument about it that if the timing of our orgasms overlapped at all they were considered simultaneous.” Both lay in silence for a few moments, remembering the first disagreement, and the second, which had inspired this particular wager.

“It was the only way to be fair.” Sherlock repeated as he had done several times after he first proposed the solution. “Announce us with the same title so nobody knows which is which.”

“I suppose,” John allowed, pressing a smiling kiss into Sherlock’s chest. “I know you were first, though. Your surname was first.”

“The alphabet is beyond my control, John,” Sherlock intoned in a faux-bored voice. “How long do you think this argument will go on, then?” he asked, hands snaking into John’s hair as the single kiss turned to a trail leading to a very interesting place.

“Until death us do part.” John whispered into his husband’s skin.

FINIS.


End file.
